The Resurrectionists
by Sisyphean Effort
Summary: Captain Jack and Ianto travel to Torchwood Scotland to investigate a mystery involving ghosts, grave robbing, and body snatching. Will they be able to figure it all out before they become the next victims? Maybe, with a little help from a certain Time Lord. Jack/Ianto. One sided Jack/Dr. Warning: Mature themes, slash.
1. Chapter 1

_I do not own either Torchwood, or Dr. Who. Because if I did, Ianto Jones would still be alive. In fact, in this particular fic., the whole original Torchwood team is still alive..._

_I'm attempting to weave actual history in with this plot. So forgive me if I stumble a bit, because that's new for me. I'm also new to this fandom, so forgive me for any mistakes I make there as well. Mea Culpa. That being said, some feedback would be nice. :)_

_Anyway, on with the actual story..._

The Resurrectionists

Chapter 1: A Small Trifle

_Edinburgh, Scotland, 1827_

A chilled November wind cut through the cobbled square, the square where two men trudged uncertainly in the fading afternoon light. They paused, seemed to bow their heads together in low conversation, or perhaps argument, when a loud, tolling bell sounded somewhere nearby, neatly cutting off their words. _Bing! Bong! Bing! Bong! _And then, as if this were a signal, the great double doors of the large brick building in front of them opened up, and a flood of young men filed out like a swarm of ants leaving a hill, tramping down the steps, with books under arms, in clusters of two or three. The two men, in dull gray wool, looking somewhat worse for wear in their frayed laborers' caps, waited in the center of the square as the group of young men dispersed, flowing away in various directions, cutting around the two laborers as if they were but rocks in a river stream. The younger of the pair shifted nervously from foot to foot; he looked as if he wanted to turn and bolt. But the older man looked determined; his jaw was set and his stance was rigid, unmoving. And when a figure, dressed in a fine dark suit with a crisp white collar appeared at the top of the steps-well, the older and taller of the two broke away and swiftly approached the stairs with a straight, purposeful gait. He ascended the steps and said directly to the well-dressed young man standing there:

"Excuse me, sir, but would this be the establishment of Dr. Munro?"

The young man blinked and looked at the other questioningly. "This would be Dr. Munro's lecture hall and surgical theater, yes."

"Well, the good Doctor wouldn't happen to be about, now would he?"

The young man shook his head. His eyes went from the taller man in the green cap, to the other, obviously younger man who was hovering just behind him at the base of the steps. When his eyes met the younger's, the young laborer's gaze dropped like a stone to the earth.

"Dr. Munro is never in his theater at this time of day; the light is too poor," the young man explained, and he watched a flicker of disappointment cross the older man's face. So he added quickly: "But if it's an anatomist you are looking for, then you could try Dr. Knox's offices; his lectures run well into the evening. Number ten, Surgeon's Square?"

The other man's face brightened considerably. "Yes, sir-we will try Dr. Knox's establishment. Thank you, sir." The man in the moss green cap abruptly turned and went down the steps, grabbing the other man by the arm as he went. "Fear not, we'll be rid of that little problem of yours yet," he muttered to the shorter man as the two of them turned to go, making their way across the damp gray stones of the square, losing themselves in the thick shadows of the university's buildings. The young man on the stair watched them until they were completely out of sight, the two figures disappearing into the oily, failing light of a narrow close like specters into a swirling mist.

* * *

_Tap-tap-tap!_

The man in the green cap rapped smartly on the door with the number ten painted squarely on its center. Moments went by and no one answered. So he rapped again, louder: _tap-tap-tap! _A clomping sound and a rustling could be heard from within; there was the muted metallic screech of a bolt being drawn, and the door was suddenly shoved open.

"May I help you?" asked a young man with a copper moustache and brilliantined hair.

"Excuse me sir-we were wondering if Dr. Knox would happen to be in?"

The young man regarded the haggard-looking pair suspiciously. "And what business do you have with Dr. Knox?"

"We have-" and here the other man faltered, and seemed to consider the best choice of words. "That is, we have a...subject to dispose of, and we thought that perhaps-"

And here the young gentleman's face lit up with understanding, and he cut the other off: "Ah yes! A subject! Yes, Dr. Knox would definitely be interested." His eyes swept over the pair; they seemed to be searching for something. And, once seemingly satisfied with what they found-or didn't find-the copper-haired gentleman said: "Come back in an hour with the subject; Dr. Knox will be in residence then." The two men in caps nodded their heads vigorously, even cheerfully, at these instructions. They watched as the copper-haired gentleman turned to go back inside. He started to close the door, but then paused and added:

"Oh...and resurrectionists use the back door..."

* * *

Night was falling as fast as a shooting star across the gabled buildings situated around the Surgeon's Square near South Bridge. Out of a damp, darkened close stepped two figures in common laborers' caps, carrying between them a heavy burlap sack. They trudged with uneven, badly coordinated steps toward the large house with the number ten painted on its doorway. They passed briefly beneath a failing gas lamp, its light dimming and brightening capriciously of its own accord, due to either the burgeoning damp or lack of fuel or poor design. The two men angled their heavy burden around the side of the house-a house almost as big and grand as a manse-and they passed through a narrow cul-de-sac, coming to a stop at a basement stairwell.

The two dropped the sack with a dull thud.

With his shoulders heaving in the gloom in an effort to catch his breath, the tall man in the moss green cap turned and descended the short staircase, banging on the door at the bottom. His younger companion stood at the top of the stairwell by the sack, hugging himself against the growing chill. In the near dark the tall man might have smiled at him, and he said, in what was meant to be a reassuring tone:

"Not long now, Will. We'll soon be done with this, and all the more richer for it, besides." The taller man thought of the numerous drams of spirits that he would take by the fireside later. Later, when all this nasty business was well out of the way.

Without warning, the basement door flew open. The same copper-haired man from earlier was there; the golden light from within the room made a fiery halo around his head. "Right on time," the man said approvingly. "Please, come in."

Then: "Dr. Knox! It's here!"

The copper-haired man stepped aside, so the two laborers could bring in their bundle. "I'm Alexander Miller, Dr. Knox's assistant. If you would please put the subject on the table over there. Dr. Knox will be with us shortly."

The two men in caps heaved the sack onto a seven foot long metal table. A moment later a tall man with a graying beard entered the room. His impeccably starched collar, finely tailored jacket and air of ownership made it clear that this was Dr. Knox. "Good evening," he greeted them in a rough, but erudite, tone of voice. "I'm Dr. Knox. It's a pleasure to do business with you. And you are?" The doctor took each man's hand in turn, waiting for their answer.

The younger, blonder gentleman looked somewhat startled as he heard the man in the green cap give the doctor a pair of names that weren't their own. "Excellent," said the doctor. "Now, let's see exactly what we have here." The doctor waved a hand toward the burlap sack on the table.

The laborers began unwrapping the bundle, slowly revealing the thing inside: the corpse of an older gentleman, in his late fifties, unwounded, his flesh only slightly discolored by gathering fluids. Knox and Miller exchanged a look over the dissecting table; this was a lucky find indeed-good corpses were hard to come by. Miller leaned forward with a oil lamp as Knox examined the dead man, nodding approvingly. Yes, this was far better than any body packed and shipped in brine from Dublin-fresher, and more intact. An altogether perfect subject. The doctor turned to the two men, "I'll give you seven pounds, ten shillings for it."

The two laborers exchanged surprised looks. The amount that the doctor had just proposed equalled about a month's wages for the two of them. So the man in the green cap eagerly accepted the offer, not realizing that the anatomist had purposely undercut the price by about three pounds.

No matter. The two men were new to this.

But they wouldn't be for long.

In fact, as the two laborers departed the cellar-with the doctors parting words of, "I look forward to seeing you again, when you have another such subject to present," ringing at their backs-the man in the moss green cap had an idea. A kind of revelation. If a single corpse-or rather, a single day's work-equalled about a month's worth of wages, then why should he toil, day in and day out as a cobbler, when all he had to do to earn his porridge and whisky was find another dead body to sell? Of course, this first body had been a random accident. His companion had found the old man dead from natural causes in his lodgings-the lodgings which his friend owned-and he had not known what to do with the body. It was he, the man in the moss green cap, who had come up with the brilliant idea of selling it. And now the two of them were several pounds richer for it...

The taller, darker man clapped his friend on the shoulder as they ascended the murky, mist-shrouded stairwell of one of the closes. "See, Will. I told you. Ol' Burke came through for ya. That old man is gone from your rooms, plus, we have some fine silver in our pockets to show for it."

The younger, blonder man, whose real last name was Hare, said with a shiver: "I don't like it, William, carrying around a body like that. It's not natural. It needs to be interred; given the rites. What those doctors do-"

"-it doesn't matter what those doctors do, Will," said Burke, interrupting. "What matters is this..." And here, he took a shiny coin from his pocket, flipped it into the air and caught it with a laugh. "Come on-let's go celebrate at the pub! I fancy a warm fireplace and a dram or two."

Hare then smiled his first smile of the day. "Yes. I imagine some spirits will do a great deal to put me to rights." And so the two of them went towards the nearest pub, a noticeable, happy spring to their steps. Hare, with warm thoughts of meat stew and liquor on his mind, and Burke, with cold, dark thoughts of money and future corpses...

* * *

_Cardiff, Wales, Present Day_

Ianto was positive that someone had tampered with his espresso machine.

The shots were running too long. Well over thirty seconds; he had timed it by his pocket watch. Ianto sighed and took out the espresso bank in the center. He swabbed it delicately with a blond-haired brush, removing clumps of coffee grinds. Clogged-someone had ground too much and now the beans were all stuck together. _Dammit. _He had fine-tuned this machine to run perfectly; it spat out shots at a beautiful twenty-six seconds. Golden. Perfect. Just the way Jack liked it...

Until someone had obviously messed with it. And Ianto had a pretty good idea who the culprit was.

Ianto straightened and backed away from the machine, brushing away some rogue espresso grinds that were clinging to his waist coat-a grey silk waistcoat that had been purchased from the men's designer section at Harrod's for an ungodly sum. In fact, Ianto's whole ensemble screamed expense: button down Armani shirt in an impossible violet color (impossible for anyone except himself), silk burberry tie in soft lavender, Gucci slacks that were perfectly tailored, Italian shoes made of impeccably crafted leather. He may have been relegated to the sorry position of making coffee for the whole team, but-by God-he was going to look like a runway model while doing it.

And also because he knew Jack liked it...

Ianto left his office, designer heels clicking smartly across the catwalk through Torchwood's hub, heading for the dissection room. He passed by Tosh's office; through the glass he could see the Asian scientist dressed in a welder's helmet and gloves. She had a blowtorch in hand and was bent over what appeared to be a giant alien ray gun (and it probably was). Ianto _click-clacked _his way across the metal catwalk until he came to the entrance of Torchwood's medical facilities. He unceremoniously flung open the door and stepped inside.

In the glaring whiteness of the dissection room, Ianto found Owen, Torchwood's resident doctor, bent over a metal dissecting table, cutting into a creature that appeared to be half-human, half...blowfish (?). Owen was wearing his lab coat tricked out in various pieces of flair: a smiley face with a bloody bullet hole in its head proclaiming _Have a nice day!_, a button suggesting _Kiss me, I'm Welsh! _(no, thanks), a Beatles band pin, and one with a hammer and the slogan _Kill 'em all and let a Norse god sort 'em out _written around it. And these were just a few of many. Alerted by the slamming door, Owen stopped mid-dissection, a scalpel poised in one hand, a half-eaten bacon roll in the other.

_Eating over the dissecting table_, thought Ianto. _How_ _disgusting. _Then he said: "I can't believe you're eating that over a corpse."

"Why not?" said Owen, shrugging insouciantly. "Our dead alien friend here doesn't mind a few crumbs-do you, pal?" And here he prodded the dead flesh with his scalpel. Ianto winced.

"Have you been trying to use the espresso machine again?" asked Ianto directly.

Owen looked like a weevil caught in headlights. Ianto smelled the distinct aroma of guilt. Still, while taking a sloppy bite from his sandwich the doctor said, "Nope, haven't touched it."

Ianto quirked an eyebrow. "You sure about that?"

"'M h'ure," said Owen around a mouthful of bacon.

"You know how Jack gets when he doesn't get his morning coffee-"

"-well, I'm sure you'll find some other way to keep Jack happy," said Owen insinuatingly, with a knowing smirk.

Ianto didn't dignify that with a response. Instead, he walked over to the medic's desk, grabbed up the empty espresso cup that Owen had been futilely trying _not _to look at, and he swept out of the room without a backward glance.

"IANTO! WHERE'S THE COFFEE!"

Jack's voice echoed down the Hub's metal corridor as Ianto clomped his way back to his office, irritation adding an extra loudness to his steps. _Click-clack! Click-clack! _"Coming Jack!" called Ianto, as he burst through the door to his own dark, meager office. From elsewhere in the hub, other voices called:

"Ooh, make one for me, too, Ianto!" yelled Gwen.

"And I want a chocolate thingy!" called Tosh.

Ianto rolled his eyes in frustration. "I'm not just the secretary, you know," he muttered to himself, though he was very much afraid that he was. At least the rest of the team treated him that way. Ianto was just about to give the espresso machine another go, when his computer screen lit up, and a cheerful _bing! _signalled the arrival of new mail. He walked over to his desk and clicked on a document marked _URGENT! READ NOW! _But that wasn't the thing that immediately caught his attention.

No, the thing that really caught Ianto by surprise, the thing that really grabbed him, was that the e-mail was marked from Torchwood, Scotland Branch...

_End Chapter 1._


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks to all of you who have commented on this story! I take reviews as a form of encouragement, and encouragement is what gets me to writing! So, on with the story..._

Chapter 2: A Sweet Opportunity

resurrectionist: _noun; one who steals bodies from graves in order to sell them for dissection; a body snatcher._

_Edinburgh, Scotland, 1828_

It was cold, so very cold. Late January and the remnants of a heavy snow remained stuck to the ground, dirty and yellowed and quickly turning to sludge under the constant mist of rain that pummelled the earth. It was like the sky was spitting. Not enough rain to melt the snow and ice, just enough to make it a little more miserable, a little harder to traverse. And William Hare was currently trudging through one of the narrow wynds with a heavy sack slung over his shoulder, moving carefully, crunching through the ungodly mess of dirt and grime and melting ice, when suddenly, from above, someone called out a warning of: "Gardy Loo!" Will flung himself back against the stone wall of a tall tenant house, narrowly avoiding being hit with the contents of a chamber pot that was thrown out of a side window in one of the upper floors. The muck landed a bare arm's span away from him, splattering the tips of his boots. "Ugh!" he gasped, and he wound his threadbare wool scarf even tighter around his mouth and nose. The stench was abominable. Will hurried away, up to the top entrance of the cobbled path, moving as quickly as the heavy burden over his shoulder would allow.

He was almost home to Tanner's Close.

Will stopped to drag the toes of his boots through a standing bank of snow, sloughing off the muck. It was a difficult balancing act, what with the heavy sack he was carrying. He managed it without falling and continued his way up the street, a street which felt claustrophobic beneath the tall, shadowy stacks of four and five story buildings lining either side, buildings which seemed to tilt inward like sleepy, nodding giants. Will heard a steady cracking sound from above; one of his neighbors was beating ice from the laundry against the side of the window-the linens had frozen stiff overnight. Will scampered through the shimmering fall of ice chips, felt a couple of them bounce off his cap like impromptu hail. He gritted his teeth in growing annoyance. He'd had enough snow and ice to last a lifetime...

Will turned and abruptly disappeared down a barely visible staircase which lead to his own lodgings. At the bottom, sitting beneath the straw awning on a wobbly wooden stool, was an old man in a brown knitted coat, a half-empty bottle conspicuously in hand. "Young Will," he greeted merrily, with a smile that was missing several teeth, giving it the illusion of a piano keyboard. "It's a lurv-er-ly day out, is it not?" He raised his bottle in mock salute.

Will merely shook his head, lowering his scarf. "It's not lovely; it's miserable," he said gloomily. His blue eyes slid to the bottle of whisky the old man had obviously been nursing all morning. "You've been looking at it all wrong through the bottom of that bottle again."

The old man wheezed out a laugh which abruptly turned into an uncontrollable cough. "Aye. Maybe so. But it keeps my bones good and warm."

Will shifted the heavy sack he was carrying to the opposite shoulder. "Come on, Wallace," he said with an imploring tone. "You know I can't have you hanging 'round the front door like this. Margaret will get mad. She says it looks 'disreputable'."

"But Will, the snow's finally melting-"

"-no 'buts,' Wallace! You gotta go elsewhere." And without waiting for a response, Will stepped by the old man, through the front door of his own house, nudging it open with the toe of his boot. Once inside, he shut the door with his other boot and made a beeline for the fire that was crackling, flashing like a welcoming beacon of warmth in the center of the room. In a chair on the opposite side of the fire sat Burke with his shoes off and his sock-covered toes propped against the front of the grate.

Will dropped the heavy bundle he'd been carrying and sunk wearily down by the fire, removing his gloves to better warm his cold, shivering hands. His eyes met Burke's across the way. And Burke, with a suspicious look, finally said, "So...what ya got in the sack there, Will?"

Without a word, Will reached back to untie the string that was holding the sack closed. Several lumps of coal fell out, and he picked them up one by one and tossed them into the fire. "Had to go out to the Grassmarket for some coal; Margaret said the braziers in all the rooms were 'bout out," he said by way of explanation. And then, as if her name had been an invocation, Mrs. Hare materialized.

"Will!" she all but yelled. "Where have you been all morning? I sent you out for that coal an age ago..."

Will sighed and rolled his eyes. "The snow and ice slowed me down a bit, Madge. That's all," he insisted. Of course, what had really slowed him down was the detour he'd taken through St. Mary's Wynd, where he had meandered, lingering to stare longingly through the shiny, clean shop windows at all the lovely, rich items for sale. There he had fallen into a haze of daydreaming-nice, warm daydreams which had taken him far away from the smell and dirt and toil of Tanner's Close. And from his old, screeching harpy of a wife...

"Will," said Margaret Hare, hands planted firmly on her hips. "That old man Joseph has got to go. He coughs all day and night. It's making the other lodgers nervous-"

"-he's sick. I can't just throw a sick old man out in the cold-"

"-yes you can! I won't have it, Will. Folks won't go near a tenant house they think's been taken with the fever. He's got to go." With this, Mrs. Hare turned on her heel and stalked from the room.

Will hung his head with a heavy sigh. Why, oh why, had he married the widow Loge? He couldn't believe the current state of his life. One minute, he was a simple bagman lodging with James and Margaret Loge. The next minute, James was dead, and suddenly Will had replaced the old man in his wife's bed, even though he was only twenty-one years old, and Madge was a full decade older than he. And then, like an idiot, he had gone and married her. _Married her!_ Well, on the bright side, at least he didn't have to be a bagman or pay rent anymore...

With another annoyed sigh, Will jumped up and clomped his way up the steps to the second floor. He could feel Burke's eyes on his back as he went. He stopped in front of the room that belonged to the miller Joseph. He banged on the door and waited. After a minute or two and no sound was heard from within, Will pushed open the door and stepped inside the room.

Silence consumed the small space. Silence, except for a tiny, wheezing sound that emanated from the lumpy, feathered bed, a sound like one hears when pumping a bellows. The miller's room was shrouded in a dim, gray afternoon light-dull and faded as it passed through the dirty panes of a single window. No lamp was lit within; no fire burned in the grate. The room was cold, dark, and lifeless.

Except for the wheezing sound coming from the bed.

Will heard a pair of heavy footsteps behind him, saw a shadow fall across the doorway where he stood. He knew it was Burke. After a moment, he heard the cobbler say, ominously:

"Not long for this world now, is he?"

As if on cue, the wheezing abruptly stopped. Will's hand tensed on the door frame; he watched the unmoving lump on the bed with trepidation. After a few heartbeats, the wheezing started up again, albeit tentatively. Will loosened his grip.

"You heard what Mrs. Hare said, Will. No one wants to board at a house tainted by the fever," Burke whispered from behind him.

"I know, but..." and here Will faltered, unsure of what to do. However, Burke was more than sure. He brushed by Will and entered the room, silently approaching the bed. Will watched his shadow move in the dim, gray light. Watched as Burke reached across the bed to pick up one of the feathered pillows. In the burgeoning gloom, Will heard him whisper:

"No-not long for this world now. So...what say we help our sick friend here on out of his misery, and make a little profit along the way. Hmm?"

Will closed his eyes. He heard Madge's words, _He's got to go! _ echo in his head with a mounting threat. He also thought of all the gold and silver and soft, well-made fabrics encased behind the window glass on St. Mary Wynd's-all the rich, unattainable things he couldn't have, couldn't afford. Then hesitantly-reluctantly-he shut the door behind him, just as Burke began to slowly lower the pillow across the miller's fevered, sleeping face...

* * *

_Cardiff, Wales, Present Day_

Ianto burst through the doors of Jack's office, waving the print-out of the e-mail in his right hand. "Jack, have you seen this e-mail?" he asked excitedly.

Jack looked up from his desk, the top of which was strewn with various pieces and parts, mechanisms and wires. Ianto recognized what it was immediately.

"You're trying to fix your vortex manipulator?" Ianto asked with a hint of suspicion. "I thought the D-uh, _he_-didn't want you to use that thing anymore." Ianto didn't like saying the D word; it was a sticking point with him. He felt a pang of jealousy stab sharply at his gut as he thought about the time Jack had up and left him without word, left him for the man in the spinning blue box...

_Yes, but look-he came back to you, _said the reassuring little voice in the back of his head.

_ Oh, but he would leave you again in a heartbeat if that man in the blue box asked him to-you know he would, _said the nastier, warring voice inside of him.

_Not true, _said the other, gentler voice.

_Oh, it's more than true. _said the dark voice. _You know it. And just what do you think you are to him? Honestly? You've seen him once outside this office. Once. One date. Face it, Mr. Jones. You are just a happy distraction while he sits and waits here for the one he really wants..._

Ianto swallowed back the lump of wavering self-confidence that was suddenly stuck in his throat. He stared down at the various parts on the desk, lost in his own conflicting thoughts, the e-mail in his hand temporarily forgotten. He watched as Jack pulled at his hair in frustration, then abruptly Jack said: "It doesn't matter. I can't get it to work anyway." Jack finally raised his head, looked at him straight on. And Ianto felt those mischievous blue eyes work their usual magic on him, a magic that made him forget about everything work-related that was going on, made him forget about every nagging, preceding piece of doubt that had wandered through his brain. That gaze washed it all away. Ianto didn't move, didn't speak. Finally Jack prompted him:

"Uh-you said you had something you wanted to show me?"

Ianto stared dumbly at the paper in his own hand. "Oh, yes! This! It's an urgent request from Torchwood Scotland." Ianto held out the e-mail.

Jack stared at the e-mail as if it were on fire. Reluctantly, he took it from Ianto's hand. "An e-mail? From Albert? You're kidding. That man doesn't ask for help, not from anyone," Jack muttered testily. His eyes skimmed the page.

"You've dealt with this Albert person before?" asked Ianto, vaguely intrigued.

"No, not really. He's kind of a loner. Prefers to do everything by himself. About every couple of years or so, he'll leave me a voicemail berating me on the lousy way I do my job. "Harkness! What do you think you're doing down there? I can feel seismic vibrations from that rift all the way up here in Edinburgh! Get your shit under control, man! What kind of branch captain are you?" Jack did a rough imitation of a gruff, overbearing Scottish accent, just melodramatic enough to make Ianto laugh.

"That's kind of funny," said Ianto. "Does he really talk to you that way?"

"Yes," said Jack flatly, as if he wished it were otherwise.

"So...what do you think of his request then?"

Jack leaned back in his chair, propped his boots on his desk. "Hard to say. It says here that eight people have vanished in the catacombs of the South Bridge vaults over the past two months. He's investigated and scanned for alien tech, the whole nine yards, and has come up with nothing-squat. And the disappearances are getting...harder for him to cover up." Jack rubbed his chin in contemplation. "Well, that definitely makes things a little trickier. And harder to ignore."

Ianto stuffed his hands in his pockets. He seemed to shrink in on himself a little. "Aren't those-uhm, aren't those old vaults supposed to be haunted?"

Jack looked up. "Haunted?" There was a teasing note in Jack's voice. "Ianto, don't tell me you believe in ghosts now?"

"No, not...ghosts," said Ianto. "But maybe things masquerading as ghosts?"

Jack nodded his head in understanding. "I suppose that's possible. But still, with the rift acting up the way Tosh says it is right now, I can't really spare the man power."

Ianto's eyes lit up. Suddenly, there was an opportunity at hand. A very sweet opportunity. So he said quickly, persuasively: "Well, why don't you and I go, and we leave the rest of the team here to monitor the rift?"

Jack arched an eyebrow at this suggestion. "I don't know. I don't really want to deal with Albert Ferguson and his cranky attitude either-"

"-but Jack, if people are really disappearing up there, then shouldn't we at least go and check it out?"

"But my place is here-"

"-Gwen can be in charge while you're gone. She's done it before. And she's great at it. Nothing to worry about," Ianto suggested hurriedly.

A look of suspicion dawned across Jack's face, as bright as the morning sun. "Ianto," he said in a firm, I'm-in-charge-here tone. "This wouldn't be like the two of us going away on holiday, you know. If we're going to go, then this would be for work, an official investigation.

Ianto pulled an innocent face, one of round, baby blue eyes that appeared, to the outside observer, to be completely bereft of manipulation. "I know that." he answered casually, without inflection. Then he added surreptitiously, "So we _are _going then?"

Jack tugged mercilessly at his hair again, making it stand out in all directions. It was all Ianto could do to _not _reach out and touch it. "Yey, I suppose," Jack relented with a sigh. "You make the arrangements. I'll send Albert an e-mail. Then we'll tell the rest of the team."

"Yes, sir." And Ianto forced himself to turn and walk away normally, to not spring out of the room like some happy, bouncy puppy. _Yes! He and Jack were going to be alone together! At last! _As he walked through the hub, Ianto couldn't keep a glowing, sheepish grin from forming on his face. _They were going to Edinburgh! Just the of two of them! And not only would they be alone together, he could also show Jack that he was a capable, valuable member of the team! That he was more than someone who just made coffee and ordered take away! This was the perfect opportunity!_

And so what if the South Bridge vaults were allegedly filled with 'ghosts.' And so what if eight people had disappeared inside of them, never to be heard from again...

Ianto didn't think about any of these things as he sat down in front of his computer to book a flight for himself and Jack to Scotland. Not about ghosts, or cantankerous branch captains, or missing persons. No, Ianto Jones had one thing on his mind as he made travel arrangements:

That Edinburgh was the absolutely perfect city for a romantic holiday...

_End Chapter 2._

_Ianto really does not like the 'D' word-he-he! Too bad, because that one will be making an appearance later on in this fic. (but will it be the 10th, or 11th? Hmm...) Love triangles, anyone? I hope you like the story so far! Leave me some feedback if you do! I love it! :)_


	3. Chapter 3

_I would like to take a moment to thank my friend J. Piper for going above and beyond the duties of editor for the last couple of weeks, while I've been dealing with the frustration of a capricious internet connection. For this, you have my sincerest thanks (and a sub sandwich)! You've been wonderful at helping me to deliver this fic.! Thanks 8X!_

_Oh, and most of what's written in the bottom part is for J, too (author smiles mischievously)!_

_And now, on with the story..._

Chapter 3: The Value of Acquaintances, Old and New

_Edinburgh, Scotland, 1828_

The sound of raucous laughter came sailing in through the window, like bawdy, disjointed birdsong on the cool February breeze. Will got up from his kitchen table, eyes narrowed and a nasty, ready rebuke on the tip of his tongue. _Wallace, if you're drunk outside my front door again..._he thought to himself as he approached the front door, flinging it open in haste. But what he found there wasn't Wallace. No-standing outside his door was Burke, with a large, brown paper sack in hand and a strange middle-aged woman on his arm.

They were both obviously quite drunk.

"Will! Excellent timing!" crowed Burke, clumsily navigating his way through the door with the sack in one arm, the woman clasped in the other. "This here's my new friend Abigail-say 'ello, my dear!"

"Hello, Will," said the woman with a beaming expression, one that was no doubt put there by whatever it was Burke had in the sack. "William here has told me so much about you! And he was right, you know, you are a very handsome fellow-" The woman reached out to pat his cheek, a gesture which caused Will to step back a pace. He glared at Burke, _What the hell do you think you're doing?_ etched clearly across his face as if it were written there in pitch black charcoal.

"Tch! Now, now, Abby-I thought you only had eyes for me," Burke scolded, but his tone was easy, all mirth and charm.

"Silly! I was thinking of my daughter. She's of the marrying age, you know." She leaned in towards Will, staggering a bit. "You two would make an absolutely enchanting couple," she declared with a slight slur.

Will was just about to open his mouth to say that he was, in fact, already married, when Burke interrupted. "Come, Will! Sit with us, and enjoy a glass of spirits!" Burke dodged around him then and placed the sack down on the table where Will had been previously sitting. He drew out two bottles of three-shilling whisky and placed them on the table top with a heavy, resounding _thonk! _His eyes met Will's across the way. And there, in the space of a split second, the thud of a single heartbeat, Will saw the easy-going, drunken delight in his face melt into devious, dark calculation. So...this was all an act. _An elaborate, ill-intended act. _And in that one glance, everything suddenly became perfectly, ominously clear...

It was a good thing the house was empty of lodgers right now; fortunate that his wife had gone out to see her sister at the Cowsgate...

"I suppose I could do with a few drams," said Will, somewhat reluctantly, and he joined both Burke and Abby at the kitchen table. Burke went rifling through the cupboards, producing three cloudy-looking glasses. Three glasses, which he then filled to the brim. Will supposed he would have to be careful, and try to not drink too much.

Burke raised his glass, the easy, mirthful expression drawn like a mummer's veil back across his face. "Let us toast then! To the importance and value of acquaintances, old and new."

Will stared stonily at Burke over the glistening rim of his glass. "To the importance and value of acquaintances, old and new" Will repeated in a flat, dead tone.

Abigail was completely oblivious to it. "Ah, that's a lovely sentiment, William," she murmured, knocking back her glass with unexpected ease. Both Will and Burke barely took a sip of their drinks. Instead, they both watched Abby. Watched her like a hawk in the sky watches a mouse creeping through the grass down below-silently waiting, calculating.

Without waiting for any kind of sign, Burke refilled Abby's glass. "That's my girl," encouraged Burke. "It's a beautiful day out, might as well drink your fill."

"You're...too kind...William," said Abby as she finished off her second drink. And as she reached for a third, Will noticed how sloppy and uncoordinated her movements were becoming. How she wavered in her chair a bit. How tangled her speech was. And, in reaching for her fourth glass, she managed to knock the second whisky bottle completely from the table. It fell and shattered, the sound as loud as cannon fire in the quietude of Will's small kitchen. "Ach! I'm so sorry," the woman slurred, dropping clumsily to her knees to pick up the glittering, jewel-toned pieces. A sickly sheen now covered her face.

"Never mind it, Ab," said Burke soothingly, reaching over to pat her on the shoulder. "Will'll take care of it, won't you, Will?" He grasped Abby by the arm, pulled her to her feet.

"You look a bit unwell, my dear. Why don't I take you upstairs for a lie-down, hmm?" Burke began to gently guide her over to the stairs.

Those whispered words sent a chill trilling across Will's bones as he bent to clean up the mess on the floor. He heard, rather than saw, two sets of footsteps angling clumsily for the stair, steps which drummed across the floor like the bars of a funeral march. A surprised cry and a _thud! _from above caused Will to look up sharply. The woman was half way up the stair, hanging off of Burke's arm, clutching him mid-fall. She was well and truly gone with the drink. Will watched as Burke all but man-handled her the rest of the way up the staircase, dragging her from his line of sight. A few seconds later, Burke's voice called out to him from above, like the deceitful, sing-song voice of a dread angel:

"Oh, Will! Can you help me with our guest? She's gone and all but passed out on me! If you can just help me get her onto the mattress here-"

Will stood up slowly, a damp, whisky-sodden rag still in his hand. He tossed it onto the table, and steeling himself, he headed for the stair. He paused mid-way up as Burke's voice came down to him a second time:

"Oh...and why don't you bring one of those nice, fluffy pillows for our guest, too?"

* * *

A few hours later, under the cloud of dusk, two shadowy figures made their way across Surgeon's Square, a tea crate balanced unsteadily between them. The lamps had not yet been lit, and everything was shrouded under a blanket of deep blue, the stars just beginning to emerge, blinking into existence like two-penny candles placed before eventide windows. The two figures rounded the side of the house at Number 10, Surgeon's Square, the path to the cellar below now quite familiar to them. They hauled the box over to the top of the shallow stair leading down into the basement, and Burke bounded downward, pounded on the cellar door.

After a few moments, a scratching sound was heard, and the bolt scraped back. Once again, the two men were greeted by Dr. Knox's medical assistant, Alexander Miller. The golden light from behind him turned his brassy hair into radiant starburst.

"Ah, John! Thomas!" said Miller, calling them by the false names that Burke had given him. "Back already? It's only been-what? A little over a fortnight since your last delivery?"

"We've had a lucky break, sir," replied Burke. And Will, as usual, said nothing.

"Lucky indeed-lucky for _us_," said Miller. "Dr. Knox will be very pleased, I'm sure." And Miller stepped back, his hand gesturing them both inside. "Well, let's see what you've got for us today. If you would, please place the subject on the table. Ah...but you know the drill by now."

Burke and Will hauled the tea crate through the cellar door. They sat it down with a loud _thud! _by the long, metal dissection table, beneath a row of blaring, garish lights. Without waiting for instruction, they popped the lid off the crate and laid the now stiff body of Abigail Simpson across the table. Then they both stood by and waited. Miller approached the table, casually inspecting the body.

"Hmm-fresh," was all he said with a lifted eyebrow, casting a glance at both Burke and Hare.

After completing a quick inspection, Miller blithely dropped the hand of the corpse and said, "Well, I think ten pounds should suffice for this one-with Dr. Knox's approval, of course."

"Of course," repeated Burke.

"And of course, if you should happen to find any other subjects-"

"-then we will bring them to Dr. Knox straight-away, sir. Without a doubt."

"Excellent." Then from the back of the room a door creaked open. A pair of spectacles flashed in the gloom, and a crisp black suit, like that of a mortician's, came into view.

"Well, boys," said the low, overbearing voice of Dr. Knox. "Just what is it you have for us this time..."

* * *

Later that evening, as Burke and Hare made their way through a shadowy, narrow close near the South Bridge, Burke remarked:

"Well, that was certainly some of the easiest ten pounds I've ever made."

Will shook his head beside him in the dark. "I don't know, William. It just isn't right. It isn't _right_..." And Will thought about how much whisky it was going to take to help him get to sleep that night, to help him get past the immovable wall of his wailing conscience.

Burke slung what was supposed to be a comforting arm around his shoulder. Will tried not to flinch beneath his hold. "My dear, Will. Don't think about it. Think instead about all the money in your pocket. Think about all the hardy spirits and nice victuals we'll soon be having."

"I don't want to go to the pub."

Burke broke away from him. They both stopped, pausing to stand on one of the landings about half-way up the close. The narrow stairway smelled of trash and excrement and death.

"You don't want to go to the pub with me then?" said Burke, managing to sound hurt.

"No. I mean, yes. I mean, I don't know," Will shook his head in liquor-laced confusion. After the two of them had murdered Abigail, Will had gone down to the kitchen and finished off what was left of the remaining bottle of whisky. Because his conscience was getting harder to quiet, was becoming harder to disregard...

With a soft, sinister step, Burke crowded into Will. He hemmed him in, pushed him back against the dirtied stone wall of the close. The two of them were quite alone in their own enclosed piece of night . Then he heard Burke whisper, "Don't tell me you want to go home to that screech owl of a wife, Will?" He felt, rather than saw, as Burke lifted a hand to his face, felt him caress his cheek. Will closed his eyes, shivered in the dark.

"You know I don't-"

That was all he managed to get out before Burke covered his mouth with his own, before Burke grasped either side of his head with his hands, holding him firmly in place. Will responded to the other's kiss with equal fervor, as always. They stood there, locked together in the middle of the close. Will felt Burke's hands traveling southward, and he grabbed the other man's hand, stopping him mid-grope.

"I don't want to do it here," Will said firmly. _Not in some dirty stair that smells of cheap liquor and urine and dung._

Burke was breathing heavily. Will couldn't see his expression in the dark. He felt Burke's hands run up the sides of his arms, felt him give him a slight squeeze. "Fine then," said Burke. "I got money in my pocket. I'll get us a room."

"_Yes_."

The two of them started up the close again. Will had barely gotten three paces before Burke whirled on him again, pushed him back against the wall. His voice was full of emotion, his grip possessive, covetous, as he said:

"We're partners, Will. You and I. Partners. In _every_ way. And don't you ever forget that."

And after that passionate declaration-a declaration that was maligned by a subtext of possible threat-Burke turned away and bounded up the staircase...

* * *

_Edinburgh, Scotland, Present Day_

Jack had bitched the entire way to Scotland. On the flight, in the cab, in the lobby of the hotel in Old Town where they were staying. He went on and on about the utter loathsomeness of twenty-first century travel (and granted, flying on an Easy Jet wasn't exactly the cream of luxury flight, but it was all Ianto could get at the last minute), how much he missed travelling by vortex manipulator and damn (insert D word here) _him_ for breaking his wristband to begin with. What right did he have? And on and on he went...

Ianto endured every single rant with his usual calm, British stoicism. The two of them tramped up the staircase of the inn (the stair being another element Jack had gone on to complain about: _Seriously Ianto? No elevators?_) with overnight bags in hand. They arrived on the top floor, where Ianto had booked two rooms-albeit, next to each other-just to be safe. Two rooms, because he didn't want to be presumptuous. Two rooms, because that was what good manners dictated. Two rooms, even though that was the last thing he wanted.

Of course, after all the bitching, what he wanted most was to cram his head under a pillow. Ah, the peace of blissful silence...

"IANTO!"

Jack was yelling through the open doorway of his room. Ianto rolled his eyes, the question _What is it now, for god's sake?_ clearly etched across his face like a road way sign. Squaring his shoulders, Ianto marched from his room to Jack's. He found the Torchwood commander standing in the center of the room, his gray military coat off and hands on hips. There was an unhappy expression on his all too-handsome face.

Ianto sighed. "What is it _now_?"

Jack gestured broadly at the room, his eyebrow raised. "What's all _this?" _he asked, as if Ianto were mentally deficient not to notice.

"What's what, sir?" Ianto was struggling. _Stay calm, calm..._

Suddenly Jack was right up in his face. "Ianto," he said in a low, threatening voice. "I can't believe-"

"-can't believe what, sir?"

"-that you actually booked _two_ rooms. After all that verbal maneuvering of yours. What a complete waste of funds..."

"There was no 'verbal maneuvering,' sir-"

Jack smirked the notorious Jack Harkness smirk. "Oh, wasn't there? And what did I tell you about dropping the 'sir'?"

"Yes, s- I mean, Jack."

"A complete waste of funds..." the words trailed off as Jack grabbed Ianto by the shoulders and started backing him towards the bed.

"So...you're not mad then?" asked Ianto. "You seem a lot less stressed now."

"Mmm...that's because I know of an excellent remedy for stress," said Jack, pushing Ianto onto the bed and diving on top of him. Ianto leaned back as Jack began to kiss his way from his earlobe, down to the base of his neck...

_Heaven._

"You know, you've been a right impossible bitch for the last three hours," Ianto murmured into Jack's ear.

"Have I? So let me make it up to you," whispered Jack, his voice full of erotic promise. He reached up and pulled Ianto into a hungry, heated kiss, his hands wandering, pulling at the buttons on Ianto's expensive coat. "My dear Mr. Jones-" Jack said huskily.

"-yes?"

"-you have a shit load of buttons," Jack finished with a saucy grin, struggling with Ianto's silk waistcoat. Ianto batted his hands away. "Let me," he said, and he began undoing the buttons himself, even as Jack pounced on him again, all lips and tongue on his neck. The two of them were writhing together in a half-clothed heap on the bed.

Ianto had just started on the buttons of his collared shirt, when Jack suddenly slid upward and grabbed his wrists, pulling his hands above his head. Ianto could feel Jack's heart pounding against his own as he kissed him hard and deep-a heart, he reminded himself, that would never stop, would always keep beating-

-unlike his own-

_Don't! Don't think about such things!_

Ianto tried to push those intrusive thoughts from his mind, tried to focus on the sensations at hand, as Jack trailed his way down his torso. Ianto licked his lips and pushed his hips forcefully, wantonly forward. He was so _hard_, and he wanted so _much_...

"Jack..." he pleaded hoarsely, feverishly.

Ianto watched Jack's ever grinning face over the top of his belt as he began to deftly remove the clasp. Ianto panted in expectation as Jack slid the leather from the binds of confinement. So fucking close now-

-and then, from Jack's back pocket, the cell phone went off with a screeching, disruptive trill...

"Just ignore it," pleaded Ianto, his face gone red and his pupils dilated with want. Jack hesitated in his progress. The phone continued to trill, and Jack finally muttered, "Shit," and pulled the offending object from his pocket. He swore again as he looked at the screen and read off what was written on the small device:

_HARKNESS, WHERE THE HELL R U? U SHOULD HAVE BEEN HERE AN HOUR AGO. WHAT R U, SHAGGING YOUR SECRETARY OR SOMETHING? STOP BEING A LAZY SOD AND GET TO WORK! -AF_

"That man is not only a practiced fun-sucker, but is apparently also psychic as well," Jack remarked dryly. He looked at Ianto apologetically. "Continue this tonight?"

"I suppose," said Ianto, though the disappointment in his voice was as clear as glass.

"I'll make it up to you. Really. I'll take you out to that restaurant on the high street where all the celebrities go."

"The Witchery?"

"Yes, that one."

"You know you need reservations to get in there."

"Oh. I do? Well. Uhm, well..."

"And yes, I'll make the reservations."

Jack beamed then, and he leaned forward to peck Ianto on the lips. "Ianto Jones, what would I ever do without you?"

"Well, starve, for one."

Jack laughed, a delighted musical sound. Ianto reluctantly got off the bed and began to slowly don his discarded pieces of clothing. "So boss," he said, the very picture of professionalism, "Where are we headed off to?"

"I'm glad you asked that," said Jack with a sly grin. And then he said, quite seriously:

"We're going to a graveyard!"

_End Chapter 3._

_Reviews, si vous plait?__  
_


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Hidden (And not so Hidden) Skeletons

_Edinburgh, Scotland, 1828_

The warm, gentle touch of a late spring sun shone brightly down on the inner courtyard at Tanner's Close. A pair of pigs-large, bristly, burly creatures-nudged each other out of the way in a violent bid to get to a small feeding trough. Chickens scampered back and forth in confusion around the pigs' mud-caked feet. Nearby, a cow stood idly chewing grass, staring docilely off into space. The scents and sounds of the barnyard-the smell of slop and fecal matter and the squeals and the constant, rhythmic clucking noises-echoed throughout the morning. And, inside the shed of the small stable house, William Hare darted, criss-crossing between the vacated hen's nests, methodically collecting eggs in a scratchy, blue kerchief.

He approached a nest that still had a hen inside it, and with a slow, practiced hand, he reached under her and pulled out two eggs. "Give up the goods, mum," he murmured to the creature, who continued to sit determinedly in her spot. He carefully added the eggs to his growing pile. Nothing was better than the taste of fresh, fried eggs in the morning.

"Guess who!" cackled a merry voice as a pair of rough hands dropped over Will's eyes.

Startled, Will dropped the kerchief-and several day's worth of breakfast-on the ground. He heard a distinct cracking sound. "For the love of God, Burke! Now look what you made me do! Madge will have my head for this!" he complained, whirling to face his sometimes business partner and lover.

"Will, Will," chided Burke. "You worry way too much." Burke reached out to grab the shorter man by the arms, maneuvering him back into the darkened space of the shed. Light slanted across them in shafts of molten gold, dappling the hay-strewn floor, slipping through the slats of the structure's uneven wooden beams like airy wood nymphs. "So, where is our darling Madge this fine morning?" asked Burke, with obvious motive, as he angled Will toward a large, hill-like haystack.

"Visiting Ann Conway across the way," Will replied, suspicion narrowing his wide eyes to darkened slits.

As expected, Burke dove in for a sloppy, whisky-tinged kiss, gripping the younger man's arms even tighter. They remained locked that way for several seconds, standing, pressed against each other in a grid of shadows. Then, abruptly, Burke broke off the kiss and stepped away. It was a move that left Will reeling and confused. Confused, because he had expected to be pushed back into the soft, welcoming cushion of the haystack. Confused, because he had expected, in his wife's absence, for Burke to try for a quick fuck on the stable floor.

It's what would have normally happened.

"I have a present for you," said Burke softly, his eyes all aglitter with mirth and liquor and undisguised want.

"A present for me?"

"Yes." said Burke, and he brushed past Will, made to kneel down next to the haystack. Will watched him as he began to paw through the hay, scraping it aside, tearing through the faded yellow mound. And then Will saw, with each subsequent removal of handfuls of hay, the sudden unexpected appearance of a shoe. And after that, an ankle. And beyond that, a leg. As clumps of hay were scooped away, more of the body was revealed. Will hissed in air. Burke clawed at the stack until the hidden corpse was almost completely uncovered. Will recognized the dead woman as her face came into view.

"Effy, the char-woman?"

"Aye, I invited her back here for a drink this morning," said Burke, sounding altogether pleased with himself.

Will began to shiver within the shadowy confines of the shed, the feeling of an intrusive, sudden chill overtaking him. A chill that even the warm, golden light of the morning could not dispel. And then, like a blanket of pure black thrown over the inner glow of their sun-dappled web, a second shadow appeared. A shuffling noise came from the doorway. Both Burke and Hare turned to stare at the open entrance of the shed. Standing there was a figure cloaked in black, the soggy blue kerchief which contained the broken eggs dangling, forgotten, from her right hand.

"So-what's all this then?" came the hard, accusing voice of Will's wife, as both Burke and Hare stood frozen like graveyard statues over the body of Effy the char-woman.

* * *

"I want my cut."

Madge sat at the kitchen table with her arms folded firmly across her chest. Her expression was stern. In the quiet, closeness of the stable-in sudden, indecipherable panic-Will had confessed everything to her. _Everything._ And Margaret Hare, ever the enterprising business woman, made her demands known:

"I want at least one pound per body."

Burke and Hare just stared at her across the expanse of the kitchen table. Both wore comically dumbfounded expressions. But Margaret Hare was exact, relentless. She wanted her share, and she was going to get her share. Especially as it was_ her_ lodging house that seemed to be the main base of operation. And not only that, the fact that it _wa_s a tenant building-well, that only made their opportunities for possible monetary gain even better, almost morbidly, ridiculously so. What with all the immigrant workers coming through, workers who were far away from home, who were out of contact with their families. Workers whom no one would miss if they were to suddenly vanish. Workers unfamiliar with the city or its people. Madge pointed all of this out to them with cool, dispassionate detachment. And Burke, listening, merely grunted at her assessment. Whether this was a grunt of assent or of agreement or of admiration, Will could not tell. Either way, he was unnerved by the situation. Unnerved by his wife's own frank acceptance of the arrangement.

"...And that's the way it's going to be," finished Madge sharply, scraping her chair back from the table and standing. Satisfied with her pronouncements, she headed off to her own parlor to return to her sewing. A few feet away, she paused in the doorway, and said over her shoulder:

"Oh, and in the meantime, if there should come along any...eligible persons, I shall certainly tell the both of you straight-away."

And with that final decree, Margaret Hare quietly-and calmly-disappeared into the private sanctity of her sewing chamber...

* * *

_Edinburgh, Scotland, Present Day_

"Uh, Jack?"

"Yes, Ianto?"

"You were kidding, right? About us going to a graveyard?"

"I'm afraid not."

"But _why_?"

"Because...that's where the hub of Torchwood Scotland is currently located."

"_In _a cemetery?"

"Not _in _it_._ Below it. Specifically, underneath Covenanter's Prison. Because their old base vanished."

"Vanished?"

"You know, it fell into one of those trans-dimensional thingys."

"A trans-dimensional whassit?"

"Yeah. One of those."

"You're not making any bloody sense."

"Ah, look! We're almost there!" said Jack as he rounded the corner of Candlemaker's Row. He came to a sudden stop, and Ianto almost collided with him. Jack stood with his hands buried deep within the pockets of his military coat. "See, Greyfriar's kirkyard."

Ianto, bundled in a camel-colored wool coat and a bright tartan cashmere scarf, followed Jack's gaze. From the road, he could see the black wrought iron gates which surrounded the kirkyard, and beyond that, the majestic, curving structure of the four-hundred-year old church itself. Looming above it all, far off in the background, like some great stone sentinel, was Edinburgh Castle, just visible over the top of the graveyard's back bordering wall.

Jack darted across the road, and Ianto scurried after him, a blare of horns howling in their wake. Jack slipped casually through the open gates of the kirkyard, coat fluttering out behind him as he strolled along in that way of his that made him seem like he owned the place. Ianto was content to admire his form from a distance, was content to place the majority of his focus on him. Because if he focused on Jack, that meant he didn't have to focus on all the creepy, overturned headstones-many of which seemed to be decorated with cantering skeletons or skulls and crossbones-that dotted the kirkyard, lying about like so much fallen stone shrapnel.

It was all decidedly morbid.

The two of them rounded the structure of the church itself, a beautiful, ancient edifice whose sign announced that services were still given in old Gaelic on Sundays. Low hanging trees dotted the green of the kirkyard, providing a lovely contrast to all the old headstones: bright, lively pieces of vivid, flourishing life brushing against cold, ancient memorials of death. A late afternoon sun cut through the abundance of leaves, dappling the ground around their feet with gold coins. Ianto remained close to Jack, following the Torchwood commander to a section in the very back of the cemetery. To a second, secluded wrought-iron gate that was heavily chained and padlocked.

"Here we are," Jack announced.

Ianto stared through the locked gate. Inside was a narrow path, bookended on either side by rows of massive, standing mausoleums. Ianto felt a chill slither through him at the sight.

"We're supposed to go in there?" he asked.

"Yes. Specifically, into that mausoleum right over there-otherwise known as the Black Mausoleum," said Jack, pointing to a standing stone structure about mid-way down the row.

Ianto just stared, mouth agape. "You're...you're not serious? No-there is no way I'm going into a...into a..."

"A tomb?" finished Jack with an annoying smirk. "Oh, and did I mention that the Black Mausoleum is supposed to be haunted?"

"Jack-"

"It's the supposed residence of the MacKenzie poltergeist. Hundreds of years ago, a guy named George MacKenzie, who was a judge and a bigoted, all-around sadistic douchebag, locked several hundred covenanters in here and left them all to starve. Not a happy situation. And now it's said that his ghost haunts this place-"

"-Jack-"

"-otherwise known as Covenanter's Prison. The MacKenzie poltergeist is a somewhat malevolent creature. There were a reported five-hundred attacks just last year alone-"

_"Attacks?" _Ianto practically squeaked.

"-a very violent entity, the MacKenzie poltergeist. A Catholic priest tried to do an exorcism once. But he failed and died a few weeks later-"

_"He died?"_

"Yey, you know. Shit happens...so, hey! Shall we go in?" Jack finished and turned to smile at Ianto.

Ianto had gone as white as a marble slab. He was shaking his head like a man hooked up to an electro-shock machine. "No, no, no-not going in there."

Jack just grinned. "Oh, c'mon, Ianto. You're not afraid of one tiny little ghost, are you?" Jack was all ease and nonchalance. He moved to place an arm around the other's man's shoulders. And, leaning his lips next to his ear, Jack whispered: "Don't worry, I won't let the big, bad poltergeist eat you..."

Ianto shrugged him off. "You're a very wicked man, Jack Harkness."

"And don't you just love it! C'mon, Mr. Jones-let's visit a crypt together. At least you can't say I'm a boring date."

"You're never boring," said Ianto, who felt his tension dissipating, driven away by the bright sun that was Jack Harkness's blinding, confident personality.

"Now, if I can just get rid of this lock-" and, at the exact moment the words fell from Jack's lips, the padlock slid downward and clicked itself open.

"Oh holy Jesus," muttered Ianto, looking faint.

"Ah! Looks like we're expected. Excellent!" The iron gate shrieked in protest as Jack pushed it open. The Torchwood commander made his way down the narrow grass path, strolling along as if he were in his own back garden. Ianto hesitated. Then, steeling himself, he began to follow after Jack, tension coiling his muscles into tight, rigid knots.

"Come along, Ianto," Jack called over his shoulder. "Once we get inside the tomb, it'll all be over."

"That's exactly what I'm afraid of," Ianto murmured to himself.

* * *

"See! Reality projection simulator. That's all there is to it. You just go through the back wall of the mausoleum and into the elevator. And the threat, the legend of the poltergeist, keeps people away. It's brilliant, really."

Jack chatted away casually as the two of them rode an old-fashioned cage elevator down into the hub of Torchwood Scotland. Ianto still felt faint. His fear of ghosts and an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia had almost been too much for him to handle. Being inside that god-awful mausoleum had almost been too much for him to handle. It had been so dark. And so cold. And so relentlessly, unnervingly _creepy_...

Ianto was extremely glad to be out of there.

The elevator clanged to a noisy stop. As Jack slid back the antique metal door, a loud voice boomed out from the shadows:

"Harkness! You're finally here! I thought maybe the poltergeist had eaten you!"

They were approached by a man in his late forties wearing a black duster. He wore wire-frame glasses and his dark, graying hair looked as if it hadn't seen the right side of a brush in decades. He had at least two day's growth of beard and looked wholly unkempt. This, then, was the sole proprietor of Torchwood Scotland.

"Albert Ferguson, may I present my colleague, Ianto Jones."

"Good to meet you, sir," said Ianto politely, as Albert reached out to give his hand a near-spastic shake.

"Bless my ears," said Albert, "that sounds a lot like a London accent."

"Ianto is formerly of Torchwood London," Jack explained.

"Ha...Torchwood London!" Albert practically sneered. "Went and got themselves all blown up, didn't they? Bloody bit of good that lot did..." Albert let the comment trail off. He turned and stalked off, and Jack and Ianto had no choice but to follow him.

Jack gave Ianto a sarcastic look which clearly said: "We're off to a fine start here, aren't we?"

Ianto merely rolled his eyes in response.

"Here is the situation gentleman," boomed Ferguson, as he led them all into a small room, one wall of which was completely covered by TV monitors. Various views of Edinburgh-the gate to Covenanter's Prison, the Royal Mile, the castle, and what Ianto thought might have been one of the entrances to the underground vaults-played across the screens. Albert sat down on a swivel stool in front of a long metal table and swung to face them. "People are going down into the underground vaults. And they're not coming out."

Ianto waited. But Ferguson said nothing more than that. After a moment Jack said:

"And you've investigated the scene?"

"I tried."

"Tried?"

"Yes." Ferguson stared off into space. Then finally he said: "There is...some sort of presence down there."

"But you said you did a scan, and you picked up nothing?" interjected Ianto.

"Nothing on the scan," said Ferguson, his owl-like eyes peering into Ianto's. "But I could _feel_ it. I could feel something. Some sort of ghostly...presence. Something _evil._"

Now it was Ianto's turn to sneer. Historically, the relationship between England and Scotland had never been cozy, and after that little swipe Albert had taken at Torchwood London, Ianto was feeling a little bit vindictive. "What is it with you Scotsmen and your ghost stories? You can't carry out a legitimate scientific investigation based solely on some random 'feeling'-"

"-Would you care for a drink Mr. Jones?" Ferguson asked suddenly.

"What?"

"A drink. Would you like one?" Ferguson repeated. "I myself could use a nice glass of Scotch. How about you, Captain Harkness?"

"No, I'm good, thanks."

Then, as if a switch had been flipped, a small cabinet door clinked open and a bottle of liquor-specifically, Scotch-slid across the metal counter, coming to a stop next to Albert Ferguson's hand. Then Ferguson rolled his eyes and said: "You know, for guests, I would at least like a glass." A moment passed, then a small shot glass sprang forth from the cabinet and slid across the table to rest next to the bottle of Scotch."

"Oh. My. God." said Ianto, his eyes gone wide.

"What?" asked Albert innocently. He craned around Ianto to address Jack. "You _did_ tell him about the poltergeist, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir. In great detail."

Ianto felt faint again. He sputtered. "You mean...you mean that thing's for _real_?"

"Mack? Oh, yey."

_"Mack?"_

"Yes, Mack." said Albert. "Oh, and don't worry, Mr. Jones. Mack isn't guilty of all those attacks that people reportedly talk about." Ferguson paused and stared off.

"Well, not most of 'em, anyway..."

Ianto swallowed, his eyes darting around wildly. "I can't believe you have an actual ghost running around in here."

"And why not?" asked Albert, his tone suggesting that this was all perfectly normal. He scooted forward on his stool and asked Ianto in a low, confidential voice: "Is it true that you have a real pterodactyl flying around your hub?"

"Uhm...yes."

"And you feed it chocolate bars?"

"Uhm...yes."

Albert looked pleased. He swiveled around on his stool, took up the bottle of Scotch, uncorked it, and poured a full shot into the glass. "See-every hub has its own...mascot, for lack of a better word. Nothing wrong with that."

Ianto jumped as Jack punched him in the shoulder. The expression on his face said, clear as day: "See, I told you so."

The expression on Ianto's face said something far less polite.

"Now about this matter of the vaults," said Albert, knocking back his shot with aplomb.

"You want us to investigate it on your behalf?" asked Jack.

"You-Captain Harkness. I mean _you._ I'm not so sure it would be safe for your colleague here."

"Why just me?"

Albert clinked his glass down on the table and swerved around to look Jack full in the face. "There has been a Captain Harkness in the records of Torchwood for almost a hundred years-"

Jack arched an eyebrow. "There's no way for you to know that," Jack said coolly.

"Isn't there now?" said Albert, his initial haughtiness back in his voice. "Don't deign to tell me what I do or do not know, Captain. We are our own entity here, in Torchwood, Scotland. In fact, Scotland is where Torchwood began-"

"-I don't need a history lesson, Albert."

"Fine. Fair enough." replied Albert. "But it seems to me, from what I've read-from what I _know_-that you're something quite...special. Durable. Impervious."

Jack said nothing.

"At any rate," continued Albert, "I thought you would be the perfect man for this assignment. It's high-risk, dangerous." Albert stared Jack straight in the eye. "Think you can handle a bit of danger, Captain?"

The infamous Jack Harkness smirk was firmly back in place as he raised his head and answered:

"Wouldn't know what I'd do without it, Mr. Ferguson..."

_End Chapter 4._

_Author's Notes: I didn't make up the MacKenzie poltergeist, anymore than I made up Torchwood or Burke and Hare. I'm just borrowing from history, twisting it for my own amusement._

_Also, with my work schedule the way it is next week, I may not be able to update then. FYI, for anyone who is interested._

_Reviews?_


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5: That Which Dwells Beneath

_Edinburgh, Scotland, 1828_

The day had been fraught with misfortune.

William Hare stood off in a darkened corner of Dr. Robert Knox's cellar. His face was turned away from the gruesome scene behind him: namely, that of Knox's two assistants, Alexander Miller and Thomas Jones, laboring over an open barrel in which lay two bodies. Rigor mortis had set in, and the two men were having trouble pulling the cold, unnaturally bent cadavers from their make-shift ferry. Hare heard Miller mutter something about having to fetch a crowbar in order to take the barrel apart. Will closed his eyes against the morbid, lamp-lit horror of the room, against the entire situation. He listened to Miller's echoing footsteps as he clomped his way up stairs and into the rooms above.

Everything...everything that day had gone wrong.

It had all begun that morning with the appearance of an old woman from Glasgow, some nameless old woman with her obviously mentally enfeebled grandson in tow, asking for a room to let. And Burke, in his usual way, had offered her some whisky to drink, and the two of them had sat convivially together at Hare's kitchen table, with the woman partaking in the whisky until she was all but incapacitated. Burke had then taken her away to one of the rooms upstairs, where he had smothered her to death in his usual fashion. Once that was done, he had come back down for her skew-eyed twelve-year-old grandson, who sat, still as stone, staring off into the wild, wavering flames of an open fire, where an iron pot of water boiled. Hare had watched, with a swelling lump in his throat and his conscience stinging him like a swarm of angry horseflies, as Burke led the boy away upstairs, too, muttering that, "his Gran wished to see him straight away."

Burke had murdered the young boy as well.

Then the two of them had packed both bodies in a herring barrel.

Burke, addled by drink and tired out from his morning of murderous exertions, had pulled his back while attempting to pack away the bodies. He had then spent the better part of an hour afterwards complaining about it, and he had finally told Will, "you must load the barrel onto the Mrs.'s cart and have the horse pull it to the doctor's residence yourself." And so he had left Will, alone and exasperated, to the task of loading the barrel onto the back of a small cart inside his stable. But once Will had gotten the barrel loaded and into place, his mare had refused to pull it. She would go to the courtyard gate, and only that far with the most violent urgings, but not beyond. Will had been so spooked by this unforeseen turn of events that he had flown into a mental panic, unsure of what to do. Dreadful thoughts began to take up residence in his head, skittering across the plane of his psyche like an army of deranged ants. The fact that the horse would not pull the cart had to be an ill omen-had to be! Will was convinced of this. So much so that after failing to deliver the bodies, he had gone back inside his house, grabbed his pistol from the small cabinet inside his bedchamber, and had come back outside and shot the mare dead.

This act did nothing to untangle the skein of blackened thoughts that wound through his brain.

Afterwards, Will had gone upstairs to Burke, where he had told the other man all that had happened. Burke had just shaken his head in consternation. "What in the devil is wrong with you, have you gone daft? Send for the porter at the Square, and have him help carry the barrel to the residence." Will had then marched up darkened closes and down narrow wynds, beyond the teeming, festering slums of the South Bridge, to Number 10, Surgeon's Square, to ask the doctor's assistants for a porter. They had one sent over within the hour. And so Will, with the help of a man who went by the name of McCulloch, had hefted the barrel all the way to Knox's quarters, without the aid of Burke. And now Will was there, stuck inside the dissecting rooms with Knox's two assistants, stuck like the two dead bodies that were lodged inside the barrel.

"Would you like a cup of tea, John?"

Will jumped at the sound of Knox's erudite voice wafting out of the darkness. He turned to find the doctor standing still as night by his elbow. He hadn't heard his approach at all; he had been silent as the grave. And Will, flustered, answered, "I thank you, your honour, but no. I am fine."

Knox's spectacles flashed like light house beams beneath the line of hanging lamps. "Are you sure? You don't seem fine." Then Knox added, "I could always put a little something extra in it, to help soothe your nerves."

Again, Will was unsure of what to do. It was odd that a man of Knox's position would offer him anything, even something as small and insignificant as a cup of tea. But, looking at the floor, he said, with an inelegant mutter. "That's very thoughtful of you, your honour. It has been a somewhat...trying day."

"Of course it has," said Knox soothingly. Will's head jerked up. There was something...odd in the tone of his voice. Something knowing. Knox's form was back-lit by the lamps, his face cast in shadow, so that Will could not read his face. But Will felt Knox's eyes on him, felt the dark intensity of his stare. Felt it as if he had laid his very fingers over the contours of his face; felt it as if those eyes had the ability to reach out and touch him.

But such thoughts were absurd.

"Thomas," Knox said sharply, "Leave that and go upstairs and fetch us some tea, will you?"

Thomas, looking extremely glad to be given a reprieve from trying to pry out corpses from barrels, bounded away with a quick, "Yes, sir." Will listened to his steps as he clattered away noisily up the stairs.

Now he was all alone in the room with Knox. Will shifted nervously from foot to foot, dipped his head back toward the floor. If Knox noticed this, he did not remark on it. Instead, the doctor went on to chat amiably about everything and nothing, all the while standing close to Will's elbow. Will felt his presence sharply, his eyes darting off to the side to take in the fine weave of his dark suit, the stunning whiteness of his cuffs, the sharp cut of his lapels. Finally, he heard the doctor ask:

"And what do you dream about, John, when you're not busy...seeking out subjects to sell?"

"I beg your pardon, sir?" asked Will, caught off guard by the question.

"Your dreams," said Knox. Will thought he saw, through the veil of shadows, the beginnings of a smile. "This can't be-" and here Knox gestured toward the barrel with his hand "-your ideal situation in life."

"No, sir," Will whispered in response. _Oh, he has no idea..._

Instead of answering, Will countered with his own question: "What is it that _you_ dream about, sir? If you don't mind my asking."

Again, Will thought he could detect the sliver of a smile on the doctor's face. "I don't mind at all," said the doctor, with a rather pensive look. "Well...after my rather lengthy sojourn in South Africa, I decided that what I really wanted to do most was come back here and create a naturalist's museum to rival the one in France. That, among other things..."

Will managed to look suitably impressed. "So you've been to South Africa, sir? Really?"

Knox was about to speak when a set of intrusive footsteps came clamoring down the cellar stairway. Soft, gold light amplified the strawberry brilliantined hair to a scorching shade of red. "Took me a blasted age to find the crowbar..." said Miller, his sentence suddenly falling away as he stopped short in front of Knox and Hare. With narrowed eyes, he glanced back and forth between the two men, his gaze finally settling on Knox in what almost looked like anger. Like betrayal. But even Hare, in his simple, uneducated way of thinking, knew that look for what it truly was.

It was a look of jealousy.

* * *

_Edinburgh, Scotland, Present Day_

The entrance to the South Bridge vaults looked innocuous enough. Just a simple wooden door set into a wall surrounded by other simple wooden doors. Just another normal-looking door on another normal-looking, cobble-stoned street. It was nearly sunset. Dusk painted the sky with vibrant hues of violet and orange, curled them like ribbons of smoke through reams of fire. Three long shadows flitted across the stone wall bordering the street. Three elongated shadows, moving in single file, then stopping abruptly, their forms striping the face of the wooden door, capturing it within narrow prison bars of shady black. One shadow moved, expanded, broke away from the rest. It moved forward, covered the door in total darkness. Then a gruff, Scottish voice said:

"Here we are, then."

Albert Ferguson angled his shoulder against the decades-old door, pushed it open with a violent nudge. From the threshold, one could see the rounded contours of a small vestibule, carved out of earth and rock. And beyond that, a second, narrower archway, mostly shrouded in darkness, with the top of a stone staircase just barely visible from the outside.

Ferguson turned back to face Jack and Ianto. "May I present to you the South Bridge vaults, gentlemen. One-hundred and ten interconnected rooms, spanning the whole of the bridge. Abandoned and left to rot sometime after 1835. And before that, it was inhabited by the very lowest of the low, the very worst of the worst of Edinburgh's slum class. Thieves, prostitutes, murderers-the whole degenerate lot. It was even said that the notorious Burke and Hare used to find victims down here, during their year-long killing spree-"

"Wait-who are Burke and Hare?" asked Ianto.

"A pair of serial killers," said Jack. "They murdered people, then sold their bodies to doctors for medical experiments. Can't believe you've never heard of them..."

Ianto gave Jack a quizzical look. "Why would I know about a pair of Scottish serial killers?"

"Because it's a really famous story, almost as famous as Jack the Ripper" replied Jack. "In fact, Burke and Hare murdered way more people than Jack the Ripper ever did-seventeen total. All the while posing as resurrectionists."

"Resurrectionists?" asked Ianto, his expression becoming more perplexed by the moment.

"Grave robbers," supplied Albert.

"Oh. But...they didn't actually rob any graves?" said Ianto.

"No," answered both Jack and Albert.

"Oh."

Albert was eyeing the stone staircase with unmasked trepidation. "This is where I"ll be leaving you to your investigation, Captain. I would tell you that I would remain in contact by com-link, but I fear that they will be rendered useless down there. All I can say is, I wish you good luck." With that said, Ferguson turned to depart. He walked a few paces up the street, then paused. He turned back around and said:

"Are you not coming, Mr. Jones?"

Ianto stood with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. "I'm going with Jack."

Albert arched a graying eyebrow. "I'm not sure that is wise-"

"-maybe not, but it's what I'm doing regardless," said Ianto, cutting him off. He turned and gave Jack a determined, stony look. A challenging look. _Don't you dare try to tell me not to go down there..._

And then, as if he had spoken aloud, Jack shrugged and said, "I'm not going to tell you not to go down there-"

"I"m staying with you," Ianto answered firmly. _Always. Forever. To the end. And if you don't realize that, then you're an idiot. A great, big 51st century American idiot..._

"Guess you're coming with then," said Jack with a pleased half-smile. Then to Albert: "We'll meet you back at the hub for a glass of Scotch later."

"I certainly hope so," said Albert stoically, before turning and heading back down the street, his black duster billowing out behind him like a storm cloud. Jack and Ianto watched him disappear around a curve in the long winding street.

"Well, let's head on in," said Jack, confidently clicking on his torch and ducking into the vestibule. His steps were dauntless, his posture lacking in fear.

_And why should he fear anything, _thought Ianto, _he's the man who can't die. _And with a small, mental prayer, Ianto clicked on his flashlight and dutifully followed Jack into the vaults. They descended the stone staircase into a musty, inky blackness. The stone walls seemed to grow narrower with every echoing step of their descent, seemed to close in on them as they progressed. The stairs wound downward in a twisting, demonic spiral; Ianto felt they were following a tunnel down into hell. Or perhaps wonderland. Which was, in Ianto's mind, just another more whimsical version of hell.

They came to the bottom of the stairway, which ended in a long, dark room with a floor of packed earth. A tiny amber lamp in a wire sconce had been placed above the doorway on the opposite end of the room, its fragile light pulsing, flickering, revealing yet another long room beyond that, with yet another, identical carved doorway beyond that one. And what was beyond that? Probably more dark rooms, more narrow doorways. More unreliable, orange lighting. Ianto slashed the beam of his torch across the room they were standing in, revealing sets of shelves hollowed out of the walls. Light bounced, glinted off the dusty glass of a forgotten wine bottle. There was nothing to see in here; nothing of interest. Only emptiness, and silence.

Jack prowled restlessly forward.

The beam of his torch bounced eerily off the grimy stone walls. Ianto followed Jack through the second doorway into another long room which then branched off into three other rooms. Ianto stood beneath the doorway, the amber bulb above him flashing like a lazy firefly, dousing him in the light of a failing, blood-red sun. Jack sauntered through another doorway on the left, and Ianto hurried to keep up. He didn't like these rooms. Didn't like their darkness, their silence. Didn't like the secrets they were keeping.

_Thwack!_

Ianto whirled at the sound of something slapping smartly against the earthen floor. The beam of his torch illuminated the wall behind him, revealing nothing but empty space. "Hey-did you hear that?" Ianto asked quietly, as if something might hear him. As if he feared himself being heard.

"What? No. I didn't hear anything," Jack said from another doorway. His flashlight bounced briefly across the floor, then vanished.

_Thwack!_

Ianto froze. "I definitely heard something that time." He surged forward, toward the other doorway on the right. The amber light above the entrance shuddered brightly once, then failed all together as Ianto passed through it. The room was pitched into darkness. Still, he pressed on.

_Thwack!_

"Jack-can you hear that?" Ianto said, turning in a circle in the middle of the darkened room. He saw, down a narrow stone hallway, another doorway set with another tiny lamp, its dull, dusky light shining bravely against the impinging darkness, barely keeping it at bay. The slapping noise came echoing through the room, over and over again, with a maddening, taunting rhythm:

_Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!_

Ianto whispered down the hallway, paused at the entrance of another room. This room, he saw, was much smaller than the others. He stepped inside it, played his flashlight over the back wall of the narrow space. And he saw that there was something inside it, something crowded in a clump against the far wall. Ianto moved forward with slow, hesitant steps. So many, many things on the back wall. "Jack-come see this!" Ianto called.

No answer.

Ianto continued to move slowly forward, steadying his flashlight in order to get a better look at the items against the dank, crumbling wall. Dolls. So many of them. All in various shapes, and sizes. All wearing different kinds of dresses. Dolls that looked old, dirty, and frayed. Dolls that looked bright and plastic and new. Dozens and dozens of dolls.

"Did you bring me a doll, mister?"

Ianto started and the light fumbled out of his grasp. It bounced over the floor and rolled to a short stop. The light remained on, its beam shining brightly over the blank, lifeless features of the dolls. And in its hazy beam of light, a tiny pair of feet appeared, wearing brown, lace-up shoes.

"Do you have my doll?"

"Who are you? What are you doing down here by yourself?" asked Ianto in a tremulous voice. He edged forward, reached out to try and retrieve the flashlight.

"They all bring me dolls, you know," said the little girl's voice. The brown shoes slid out of the beam of light, retreated silently into the darkness. The slapping sound came again, over and over: _thwack! thwack! thwack! _ This time louder, closer. And Ianto suddenly recognized it for what it was...

It was the sound of a jump rope hitting the floor.

"Little girl?" Ianto knelt down, picked up the torch. He played the light back across the walls, over the demonic faces of the little dolls, but the girl was nowhere to be seen. The slapping sound continued, and out of the darkness her voice sang, as bright and as lovely as a church bell:

_Up the close and down the stair,_

_ Up and down with Burke and Hare,_

_ Burke's the butcher, Hare's the thief,_

_ Knox the man who buys the beef..._

The beam of the torch shimmied and danced as Ianto's hands shook violently with fear. He bolted for the room's entrance. He could almost feel the stare of the dolls, feel their dead, plastic eyes following his every move. Ianto ran down the hallway and back into the room with the dead bulb. "Jack! Jack-where are you? Jack are you here? _Jack!_" Cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck as his calls were met with a heart-pounding silence. And in the hallway behind him, Ianto thought he heard the sound of a little girl laughing.

"Better get out of here before Mr. Boots comes, mister," came a whispering voice out of the darkness.

"What?" Ianto's voice had shot up an octave. He was now well and truly scared. The room with the broken light was as icy and as dark as a winter's night. Ianto slashed the torch beam over the doorway he'd just came through, backing with shaking steps toward the entrance. He expected, at any moment, to see the ghostly form of a little girl. Or rather, the ghost of a little girl. He expected to hear her high-pitched giggles, the sound of her jump rope hitting floor. He expected-

-what he didn't expect was the pair of hands that reached around to grab him, covering his mouth...

_End Chapter 5._

_I didn't make up the girl with the doll shrine (her name's Annie, by the way), or Mr. Boots. I'm just borrowing them._

_I didn't make up the jump rope rhyme, either. It's a real one (gah! creepy!)._

_Hope everyone enjoyed it...until next time! :)_


	6. Chapter 6

_I would like to send a special thanks to repeat reviewers: specialfrancine, Nikkiesheepie, and Jolinar Jackson, for making the new kid at the lunch table feel welcome. It's hard breaking into a new school, er, fandom! I appreciate all the feedback!_

_And also a special thanks to my constant reviewers UP2L8, for the support and encouragement, and to Jorgmund Piper, for kicking my ass (grammatically) when it needs to be kicked..._

_I feel this may be one of the best plots I've ever written (maybe, hopefully), and I've still got miles and miles to go..._

_And as a special thanks to all of my readers, there is a, ahem, special fun flashback in this chapter...:)_

Chapter 6: A Welcoming Darkness

_Edinburgh, Scotland, 1828_

"Good Morning, Mr. Hare!"

Will was making his way along the main thoroughfare of the Grassmarket when James Wilson-better known as Daft Jamie-came bounding up beside him. Jamie was, as usual, dressed in a fine velvetine burgundy suit with the chain of his precious gold pocket watch swinging from the vest, and he was wearing a tall hat decorated with strange feathers. And no shoes. Jamie never, ever wore shoes. He bounced along the cobbled walkway beside Will, keeping in time with his steps, chattering mindlessly, a beatific smile plastered on his face.

"It's a fine sunny day, isn't it Mr. Hare? In fact, the sun and sky looked just like this three years ago on this very day, back in 1825. That was a Wednesday, I believe." Daft Jamie was known as the Walking Calendar of Edinburgh-he had an odd gift for matching past events to their exact date and time, no matter how odd or random or forgettable. Daft Jamie always remembered them. He was always precise. It was a peculiar and mostly useless gift, given to a peculiar and mostly useless individual. Everyone in the West Port knew of Daft Jamie. Knew him by the sight of his feathered hat and fine rumpled clothes and lack of shoes. He was as much of a fixture in Edinburgh as the South Bridge or the Cowsgate...

"'Tis a fine day out indeed," Will answered amiably. It was a gorgeous summer day, and Will was in a particularly affable mood. He had on a brand new jacket of a fine, pale blue weave and a new matching cap. He was away from the choking atmosphere of Tanner's Close, away from his nagging wife and her constant, barking demands. And Burke had gone away to visit some relatives in Falkirk. So there were no murders for him to plot, no bodies to dispose of. Nothing but this: just Will, alone and walking, on a bright summer's day.

It was like heaven.

"Where you headed to, Mr. Hare?" asked Jamie.

"Towards the South Bridge," Will answered vaguely.

"Do you mind if I walk with? Mrs. McGarrity says I have to wait to have my porridge-"

"-no!" Will answered quickly. Then, seeing the hurt and puzzled expression on Jamie's face, he added, "You know I don't usually mind the company, Jamie, but today I can't...that is, I must be left alone to my errands."

Daft Jamie quirked his head to the side, the colorful feathers of his hat dipping to and fro like bright banners caught up in a high breeze. "As you say, Mr. Hare." The beatific smile returned to Jamie's face, and he skipped away down the street, singing as he went:

_Now if yer tired and weary, feelin' sad and blue_

_ Don't let your cares upset ya, 'al tell ye what tae do_

_ Jus' take a trip to Springburn and go in tae Quin's Pub there_

_ And go doon in tae the wee room underneath the stair!_

_ For it's doon in the wee room underneath the stair_

_ Everybody's happy, an' everybody's there_

_ An' they're all makin' merry, each one in his chair_

_ Doon in the wee room underneath the stair..._

Will watched Jamie skip off, then proceeded on to the South Bridge. He made his way past the tenant slums there, past the desperate calls of the street hawkers and the girls about town, past all the wayward poor of the West Port, and on towards the majestic, pointed towers of the university, and beyond that, the Royal Infirmary and Surgeon's Square. He bounded up the stairs of closes and down the stony paths of narrow wynds. Normally, he would have found such a long walk tedious, tiring, and annoying. But not today. Not on such a beautiful, sun-warmed day...

Behind him, in the distance, the university's bell tower tolled, _Bing! Bong! Bing! Bong!, _signaling the mid-day hour. Will picked up his pace. He took the last close leading into Surgeon's Square two stairs at a time and was out of breath by the time he approached the building with the number ten painted on its door. Will, in his usual fashion, skirted around the side of the building, heading for the cellar door. It was strange, making this trip alone. Strange, without the overwhelming presence of Burke, without the heavy weight of a dead body straining the muscles of his arms...

Will descended the short staircase to the basement door and rapped four times. He waited, his heart pounding out a steady rhythm of eager anticipation, anticipation spiced by a nagging, distant refrain of guilt which played softly, persistently in the background. Moments passed, and Will found himself looking warily around him, as if he feared being seen, even though such a notion was ludicrous-there was no one around, no one else to see. Just himself. And finally...

The door to the cellar fell open, with the light of the summer sun cutting a swath through the shadowy darkness. Normally, Will would be faced with one of the assistants, either Miller or Jones, but today it was the doctor himself who answered the door. Dr. Knox greeted him with a warm, but still decidedly reserved: "Good afternoon, John."

Will had no such reservations. He knew the reason for his visit and knew that the doctor knew it as well. He immediately threw himself into Knox's expensively clothed arms and said, insistently: "Will. Call me Will."

And as their mouths came together in a clash of desperation, Will reached back and pulled the cellar door closed behind them, barring the light of the mid-day sun, cloaking their illicitly intertwined forms in an all-consuming, but welcoming, darkness.

* * *

_Edinburgh, Scotland, Present Day_

"Ianto. For God's sake, stop yelling."

Jack's voice was little more than a whisper by his ear as the captain's arms encircled him, as his hand held his mouth closed. In a panic, Ianto jammed his elbow into Jack's ribs, neatly breaking his hold. He whirled on him in anger, his fear all but forgotten.

"You insufferable immortal ass! You scared the living daylights out of me!"

Jack was rubbing his ribcage beneath his coat. "Damn, Jones, you certainly are strong. You got me good..."

"You're still an ass!"

Jack held up a calming hand. "Shhhh. Stop yelling. Ianto, I think there's something in here."

"You think?" answered Ianto in a sarcastic, high pitched whisper. Then: "Did you see the little girl, too?"

Jack's brows furrowed demonically beneath the garish glow of the flashlight beam. "A little girl? No. There were footsteps. Loud footsteps. And a man. You didn't see him?"

Now it was Ianto's turn to look confused. "No. I saw a little girl. She was...she was jumping rope."

As Ianto spoke, another bulb began to flicker, its reddish light dimming and brightening like the club lights of hell. A stomping noise came from the left-the ominous, approaching sound of heavy footsteps. Jack grabbed Ianto by the arm, propelling him to the right. "C'mon, let's go."

Ianto's eyes widened as Jack pulled him along. "Not that way. The little girl with the dolls-"

"-that is no little girl behind us," hissed Jack. They went barreling through the room with the dead bulb and down the hallway where the shrine of dolls lay waiting. But instead of going into that room, Jack veered off into another, a room which led into another long hallway, a hallway that had several identical doorways which lead off into claustrophobically small, darkened chambers. Jack pulled him into a shallow niche that was little more than an alcove with the command, "Kill the torches." They shut off their lights and waited, huddled together in tense, miserable silence.

_Nothing but silence._

Ianto could hear the sound of his own breathing, and it was loud, far too loud for such an all-encompassing, deafening silence. They waited tensely for the distant sound of footsteps. But there was nothing. Nothing but silence.

Not even the sound of a jump rope...

Traitorous trails of cold sweat crept down Ianto's well-starched collar and seeped down his back. He jumped as Jack's hand reached around to clasp his shoulder. He closed his eyes, leaning gratefully into the welcoming safety net of Harkness's arms. By his ear, he heard Jack whisper:

"Don't worry, Jones, I'll get us out of this." A pause, then:

"You trust me, don't you Ianto?"

At those words, Ianto suddenly remembered...

_ "...you trust me, don't you?"_

_ Pale moonlight bounces lazily off the water, and the light of the docks filters in through gauzy, swaying curtains. In the distance, there is the sound of a low whistle, the sound of a tanker leaving the harbor. And above him, there is Jack's face: tense, strained with desire. Desire and base lust, mixed with something else. Something like concern, like empathy, like..._

_ No...don't bring emotion into it, Ianto's mind whispers futilely._

_ "This is going to hurt," Jack murmurs, leaning down, trailing kisses from his forehead, to his ear, to his neck. Ianto is on fire with animal sensation, on fire with the touch of Jack's bare skin on his, and he finds himself wanting things he never thought he'd want. Here, in the semi-darkness of Jack's bed, in the little flat on the water, the flat that he never thought he'd be in. The place where he had waited, day after day, morning after morning, with a cup of coffee in hand-waited for Jack to relent and give him a job with Torchwood Cardiff. He'd been so damn persistent back then, so unswervingly sure..._

_ "Go home. I'm not hiring," Jack had said._

_ "I can't. I saw what they did at Canary Wharf. I saw it burn. What am I supposed to do with those memories?"_

_ "I don't know, and I don't care. Go back to London and find yourself a new life."_

_ "Give me a three month trial period," he had pleaded._

_ "No."_

_ "Three weeks."_

_ "No."_

_ "Three days."_

_ "No. Forget it. There's no job for you here, and there never will be..."_

_ Those words echo distantly through his head as Ianto reaches up to grab Jack's chin, as he pulls his face in for another deep, soul-searing kiss. He spreads himself out under Jack's too gorgeous form, hooks his legs up and around him, pulls him in. He doesn't know this creature he has become-this wanting, needy thing, keening with desire, eager to be taken. He's on fire, inside this foreign skin with a foreign voice uttering such crass words of encouragement. He's not himself..._

_ ...or maybe this is his true self, underneath the skin._

_ "Just do it," Ianto half begs, half demands. Half-crazed with wanting..._

_ Jack's first thrust brings an electric shock of pain to his system. He knew it was going to hurt the first time, hurt in a way that no amount of stretching or prepping was going to alleviate. Still, he's surprised by the slick trail of tears sliding silently from the corners of his eyes. Surprised by the foreign sensation of being invaded, of being cleaved in half. A second, deeper thrust has him grunting in pain, writhing, like a butterfly pinned to a mat, writhing with an odd sort of desperation._

_Ianto feels Jack's tongue sliding into his mouth, feels his hands gliding across his body, a welcome distraction from the pain. Jack pauses; he reaches down to grasp Ianto's cock, and there is the sudden heady zing of pleasure, pleasure now eerily intertwined with the pain, and Ianto finds himself straining against Jack's hands and cock, straining toward something unknown, something he has to have..._

"_Move with me," Jack whispers._

_Ianto moves. He is consumed by Jack, possessed by Jack: his tongue, his hands, his cock. He is everywhere, all over him, inside him. And together, they start building a rhythm, start building a friction as old as fire, as old as the great, gleaming moon hanging above the water._

"_Oh, fuck yey! That's it..." Jack chuckles. Even in the midst of all this, Jack's laughing, laughing as if enjoying some private cosmic joke._

_Ianto grits his teeth, clings to the naked form above him. "Jack," he gasps. "Jack...you gotta..."_

"_Ooh, I think he's starting to like it." There is the slither of a smirk in the moonlight._

"_Stop being a-aaah!" The words are lost as Jack slams into him hard, lost as he fucks him into the sheets. Ianto finds himself being sucked into the hypnotic rhythm, into an overwhelming friction. Feels himself being sucked in by the burning, building sensation inside of him. Into an all-encompassing, mounting pressure._

_He feels like a star ready to explode, like a geyser ready to blow..._

_Jack fucks him hard, harder, until Ianto is clawing at him, biting into his shoulder, drawing blood from a wound that will quickly heal. The sounds coming from his own throat are inhuman, animal. He has never felt like this before. Has never been like this before. Not with Lisa, not with anyone._

_Only Jack._

"_Move..." Jack commands. And Ianto moves, fucks him back. Over and over again, in a pounding rhythm. The bed is squeaking, the headboard banging against the wall. And then suddenly, out of nowhere, the world's gone, disintegrated. Shattered, like a supernova. It all goes white, white as the cum spurting out across his stomach, white as the moon glowing outside the window..._

"...MOVE!"

Ianto was startled back into consciousness as he felt Jack's hands shoving him out of the alcove. The desperation in Jack's voice, the urgency in his scrambling movements, caused Ianto to panic and drop his light, losing it in the darkness. "Jack-the torch..."

"Just keep moving!"

They abandoned the tiny alcove, with Jack pulling him down the hall. The bulb over the doorway behind them flashed and flickered erratically, creating a strobe light effect, like the garish lights of a bad rave. Ianto looked back over his shoulder, back at the other end of the hall, and standing there in the doorway was the figure of a man, caught in brief, chaotic lightning flashes of black and red...

"Jack..."

He felt Jack shove him through the doorway of another long room. The bulb there flickered and died, plunging them into darkness. There was only Jack's torch beam now, playing uselessly over the far walls. He heard the unmistakable sound of Jack's revolver as he cocked it, heard the shot ring out as Jack fired blindly at the distant doorway.

"Ianto, run!"

Ianto stumbled clumsily in the permeating darkness, any hint of light now gone. His hands brushed the walls, following the uneven, damp, stony surface into a place of utter chaos. He had lost track of Jack's torch beam; it had vanished into the void.

"Jack, where are you?"

One last desperate call, another echoing gun shot, and then everything went completely, utterly silent. Deathly silent. Ianto fumbled along, clinging to the bumpy surface of the bare wall. He wanted to call for Jack again, but fear held his voice in check. There was nothing but darkness and silence. And someone-or _something_-out there.

There was the sudden rush of cold air, and Ianto reached out a hand, found the curve of another archway. He was moving blindly in the dark, his heart pounding out a rapid bass note of panic, fear, and despair. He had to find Jack! Had to find his way back into the light! Ianto waved a hand through the archway and felt nothing but cold air brush his fingertips. Cold air, and then a low, taunting whisper:

"_I told you Mister Boots was coming..."_

And then something grabbed his hand and yanked him forward. Forward through the archway, and Ianto felt himself falling, falling into nothingness, his high-pitched screams bouncing uselessly off the stone walls around him. Falling, falling into the waiting arms of an infinite darkness...

_End Chapter 6._

_I did not make up Daft Jamie, or the song that he sings in this chapter. I also paraphrased some of the dialogue from the episode "Fragments" for the flashback._

_I would also like to give a double, triple thanks to J. Piper, for unraveling the ungodly mess I made of this chapter. Oh, and I still haven't decided which version of it I like better...  
_


	7. Chapter 7

_Thanks to all of you who have left reviews! Seriously! The feedback and support mean a lot! Getting a response to my work makes my day... :)_

Chapter 7: The Finder of Lost Things

_Edinburgh, Scotland, 1828_

Burke and Will were arguing. Their raised voices bounced in an angry staccato off the stone wall bordering the path they were currently walking, their legs stumbling, hindered, made clumsy by the drink. They had spent the better part of the evening together at Jameson's pub, enjoying steaming hot bowls of hearty victuals and drinking several drams of whisky, but as the evening progressed, the mood had gradually begun to change, to darken. An unacknowledged tension simmered in the air between them, a low flame that had started out with a slow, but steady heat. A heat which had gradually, imperceptibly, started to build its way toward an ominous impending explosion. An explosion which had finally occurred the moment Burke had asked Will to come down with him to one of the inns on the other side of the West Port, an invitation that Will had flat out refused.

"What is the matter with you, for God's sake?" Burke yelled from behind him. He had followed Will out of the pub, and now the two of them were heading in the general direction of Tanner's Close, fumbling mindlessly through an area known as the Shambles. A few feet in front of him, Will stumbled on a loose stone, catching himself on the wall.

"Nothing is wrong. Just leave me be." His voice was strained with the sound of alcohol and an indefinable desperation. _Just go away. _ _Just leave me alone..._

But Burke wasn't put off so easily. "No. You've been acting peculiar lately, and I won't have it, Will. I won't-"

"-that's not true-"

"-oh, it's more than true. You been avoiding me for days. And I don't like it. We are partners, Will. Partners. And partners confide in each other."

"Perhaps I don't wish to be your partner," Will muttered into the craggy surface of the stone wall, too low to hear.

"What was that?" Suddenly, Burke's hands were on his shoulders, pulling him around. The shadow of oncoming twilight fell across the stone path, cloaking their forms in the deep blue shade of dusk. They were all alone by the wall. Burke's eyes, darkened by shadow, bored into Will's. "What was that?" he repeated in a threatening whisper, shaking Will so that his head lolled back and forth. He'd had too much whisky by far...

The next thing he knew, Burke's lips had found their home in the crook of his neck, and Will began to squirm drunkenly, like a cross, wiggly cat beneath his grip. The overwhelming smell of alcohol filled his nostrils as Burke began to work his way around to his mouth. And Will, in a sudden burst of panicked energy, pushed him back, shoved him away. He watched as Burke lost his footing and fell, sprawling like a neglected rag doll across the rocky path.

"Why, you little bastard!"

Will took off. He ran as fast as his intoxicated limbs would allow, ran toward the (falsely perceived) sanctuary of Tanner's Close. He rounded the corner onto the main street, the street that was lined on either side by the tall, familiarly slanting tenant buildings, and he stumbled, with his heart beating like a frantic bird's wings in his chest, towards the safety of home. He glanced over his shoulder to see a darkened figure rounding the corner just behind him, a figure moving with a steady, purposeful gait. Will felt a small tremor of fear pass through him as he realized how fast the figure was closing in, how quickly he would catch up to him.

Will had just reached the shallow staircase leading to the entrance of his own building, when he felt a violent tug on his jacket collar. "You no-good, lying, cheating little bastard," Burke hissed at the back of his head. He felt himself spinning, felt his head hit the brick wall behind him as he was pushed against it. "Who is _he_?" Burke demanded.

"What?"

"Don't lie to me! I know when someone else has been poaching on my territory, and I tell you, Will, I won't be made a fool of!"

"Your territory?" Will answered angrily. All his fear dissipated in the face of this new rising rage, a bitter, festering emotion that felt freeing, empowering. "Don't you _dare_ refer to me as such, William Burke, or I swear-"

"-you swear what?" said Burke menacingly as he crowded into Will's space. The air was alive, crackling with the electrical charge of impending violence.

"Shut the hell up! What in the devil's name is the matter with the two of you?"

Will and Burke turned to stare, slack-jawed, at the figure of Ann Conway standing just a few steps away, her hands on her hips and an angry expression distorting her features. "The whole ruddy neighborhood can hear your God awful squawking! You both need to shut the hell up, before someone sends for the police!"

Burke instantly backed away from Will, backed away from him as if he were on fire. Will straightened, found his voice. "I'm sorry, Ann. I'm afraid that Mr. Burke and myself may have indulged a little too much this evening-"

"-that may very well be, but it's dark out, and the children can't sleep for the two of you caterwauling."

Burke bowed drunkenly. "My apologies, miss."

"Sorry, Ann," Will repeated shakily. At that moment, a light, like a small fiery sun, fell across the stair. Will turned to see his wife, Madge, coming up the steps, with a small lantern in hand. "What's all this?" she asked dumbly.

"Your husband and his friend here-they were waking up the whole neighborhood with their drunken ranting," said Ann. Satisfied that all would now be quiet, she lifted her chin in a righteous manner, turned, and walked back across to her own stoop.

"Idiot," spat Madge, and she grabbed Will by the arm and began to haul him down the stairs, as if he were her unruly child, and not, in fact, her husband. Over her shoulder she called, "You come along, too, Mr. Burke. I've been waiting for the two of you to come home-"

"-oh, is that so?" said Burke distractedly.

"Yes, indeed, Mr. Burke," said Madge. Will watched her lips split into a demonic grin beneath the lantern light as she said:

"You see, I have a very special guest here that I need you both to attend to..." With that, Madge turned in a manic whirl of skirts, her heels clicking bluntly across the stones as she made her way back into the house. Will and Burke glanced questioningly at each other before reluctantly following her inside.

"You see, darlin'? I found Mr. Hare for you, it weren't no trouble at all..."

Will froze in the doorway, staring at his wife's back as she bent over the kitchen table, her falsely cooing voice slithering like a snake through the room. From behind her, Will could hear the soft sounds of crying. Then Madge stepped away from the table, revealing the other person who was seated there.

"Jamie?"

Daft Jamie sat at the table, a folded handkerchief crumpled in his hand and his face streaked with tears. "Oh, Mr. Hare," he said glumly. "I've gone and lost my pocket watch, my nice, gold pocket watch, and my ma will have a fit if I come home without it-"

Will turned away. He stopped listening. "We cannot do this," he whispered to Burke, who stood just a few feet away.

Burke merely smirked in response, his face twisting into a nasty, calculating expression. He was looking at Jamie, considering, and Will could practically see the tally of figures above Burke's head as he thought about the number of pounds he could get for the body. Will reached out, grabbed Burke's arm. "We cannot..." he repeated insistently.

But Burke shook him off.

"I've given the poor thing a drink or two to calm his nerves, but he's fairly distraught," said Madge insinuatingly. Will glared at his wife, glared at the falsely concerned expression she wore, and he wished her nothing but ill. _Vile, cold-hearted witch..._

_We cannot do this..._

Jamie daubed drunkenly, uselessly, at a trail of snot that was making its way down his face. "My poor watch," he muttered, the sentence punctuated by a fit of hiccups. "Oh, Mr. Hare," he continued to moan pathetically, before laying his head down on the table, next to his high hat with the colorful feathers.

"Jamie, darlin', I think you should have a lie-down while Mr. Hare looks for the watch," soothed Madge, the words a signal for Burke to come forward.

Will was rooted to the spot, fixed by the grim specter of indecision. Fixed by his own desperately warring conscience. He watched as Burke went to pull Jamie up by the arm, watched the young man loll gracelessly in Burke's unwanted embrace. "My hat..." Jamie flailed, reached out for it, but it toppled and fell to the floor, the feathers waving like sea anemones beneath the water. Jamie's bare feet scrapped the floorboards as Burke angled him towards the stair.

"Well now, that would be that," whispered Madge with a twisted grin of satisfaction. There was a loud bump from overhead, the sound of a groan, all of which she blithely ignored. In a silken swish of skirts, she made to retreat to the sanctity of her sewing room, saying to Will cheerily as she went:

"Oh, and don't forget to bring me my pound on the morrow..."

* * *

_Edinburgh, Scotland, Present Day_

Darkness. Silence.

It was as if the world had emptied itself of all sight, all sound, all feeling. There was just blank nothingness. A silent void. And then slowly, gradually, an awareness of things began to return. Yes, there was nothing but blackness. Yes, there was no sound. But there was...there was the cold, damp hardness of the earth, an absolute certainty beneath him. And there was also the light gossamer touch of fabric, of warm cashmere, as soft as a whisper against the side of his face. _His scarf._ Ianto carefully, experimentally moved his fingers, slowly reached out to touch it. _Real. _His scarf was real, the ground was real, and he was awake, and he was alive.

_Alive!_

Ianto woke to find himself sprawled across a lumpy floor of packed earth at the bottom of a shallow staircase. With effort, with a creaky protest of aching limbs, he managed to push himself up onto his knees, his right hand fumbling against some unseen object as he did so. Ianto groped at the floor around him, his hand encountering the unnatural smoothness of cool plastic. His fingers found the shape of a handle, and he knew instantly what it was: his torch. His hand scraped at the switch, flipped it on. A hazy beam of light shot through the darkness, alighting on a-

Ianto gasped and jerked back, falling back on his haunches.

The torch illuminated the pale, ghostly face of a doll, sitting upright in the middle of the floor, large and blonde-haired with round blue eyes that were gazing blankly off into space. Ianto swallowed and stared back at the doll. There was nothing, nothing but an overwhelming, impenetrable silence as he sat on the damp earth, frozen with indecision. And then he noticed something, something there with the doll. He raised his torch and leaned forward, carefully examining the ground.

There, in the dirt next to the doll, was an arrow scratched neatly into the earth. Ianto felt his pulse quicken as he crawled forward, playing the beam of light over the floor.

_Yes! There!_ Another arrow drawn on the ground, just a few feet away...

Ianto stood. He stared at the doll, lying like a child's offering by his feet. He stepped over the doll, following the direction of the arrows, fear and uncertainty lending a careful slowness to his steps. _What if it was some kind of trap? _The narrow shaft of light slid across the ground of the chamber before him, outlining another arrow scratched neatly in the dirt. Ianto moved beyond that chamber, into another, his own steps as light and as silent as a moth's wings.

_But where was Jack?_

Fear of unseen things kept him from shouting, kept him from calling out. Inside his own head, Ianto's voice was loud and frantic: _Jack, where are you? Please be alright. Don't leave me alone in this place. Please find your way back soon... _The voice inside his head pleaded and prayed, over and over again, as Ianto silently, carefully, crept through the crazed maze of catacombs.

A rush of cold air hit Ianto's face as he entered another long hallway. At the opposite end, another orange bulb dimmed and flared in its wire sconce, revealing the base of a worn staircase. Ianto approached the stair with hesitation, his senses on high alert, his nerves prickling, reacting to every tiny bit of stimuli that came his way. At the bottom of the stair he found another neatly drawn arrow. Ianto stood beneath the bulb, his skin bathed in blood, his torch beam illuminating the narrow tunnel of stairs. He could just see something, something white lying near the top...

Ianto mounted the staircase and began to climb. His head was still woozy, and his hands followed the stone wall for support. He kept his torch beam firmly before him. As he grew closer to the head of the stair, Ianto saw what the white object was: a jump rope. And just beyond the jump rope, there was another heavy wooden door, just like the first door that had led him and Jack into the vaults. A door with a rusty metal grill set in the top of it, a grill which had the pale light of dusk filtering through it.

Dusk! Light from the outside!

Ianto released a deep sigh of relief, released breath that he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the wooden door, his hand clawing blindly for the flaking iron handle. And in a low, almost inaudible voice, Ianto said:

"Thank you, little girl."

And from the darkness , Ianto thought he heard a response, an imagined whisper:

_Annie. My name's Annie..._

"Thank you, Annie."

Suddenly, the wooden door flew open, knocking Ianto back. "Jesus!" he shrieked, rubbing at his head that was now smarting, stinging with what would soon be a nice, hardy lump. A figure outlined in black filled the doorway.

"Squealing like a little girl, Jones?" came the rough voice of Albert Ferguson. "That's not very Torchwood..."

"Albert? What are you doing here?"

"What do you mean, 'what am I doing here'? I received a text saying to meet you at the east side entrance of the vaults. I assumed it was from Captain Harkness." A small pause, then: "Where _is_ Captain Harkness?"

An expression of deep-seated despair flitted across Ianto's face. Despair, combined with a sense of guilt. Ianto looked at Ferguson and whispered sullenly: "I...I don't know. He's still down there, lost in the vaults with that _thing_..." Ianto turned reluctantly to stare at the gaping mouth of the staircase, staring at it like it was the mouth of hell...

"We have to go back in and find him-" Ianto felt Albert's hand grab his shoulder, felt the other man dragging him back into the safety net of the Scottish twilight. Ferguson said, stoically, firmly:

"I don't think so, Mr. Jones. The second set of instructions from that text was quite clear. And it said this:

_Under no circumstances am I to allow you to go back down into the vaults..."_

_End Chapter 7._

_A quick note about the vaults' ghosts: Mr. Boots was a violent, greedy slum lord, and Annie one of his tenants. Again, I didn't make them up, I just borrowed them..._

_Oh, and hey, it's my birthday!..:)_


	8. Chapter 8

_In the Present Day section, we'll be spending some time in Jack's POV. That should keep things lively for a bit, don't you think?_

Chapter 8: What Goes Around

_Edinburgh, Scotland, 1828_

Will sat with his back against the wall, on the plain straw bed where he and Burke had murdered Daft Jamie the night before. He had come into the room with the intention of stripping the coarse blanket away, of taking it off to burn but had instead just ended up sitting there, staring off into space, unable to move. Blood stains darkened and dappled the coverlet. Jamie had not gone as quietly as the others...

_ "Will! Help me with this! Damn you! Even with the drink he's frightful strong!" called Burke frantically._

_ Will came and stood in the doorway, his gaze taking in the horror of the scene before him: that of Burke struggling with Daft Jamie on the meager straw bed. Burke had his hands around the young man's throat; Jamie's eyes were bulging out of their sockets, wild with pain and fear. They alighted on Will with the unspoken plea:_

_ Please help me!_

_ Will moved forward._

_ But instead of helping Jamie, Will clamped his hands over the young man's eyes and nose and dug a knee into his chest. He closed his eyes; he refused to look at the struggling young man beneath him. And all the while, Burke kept his hands on his throat. The two of them held on until the struggling ceased, until the boy had gone as still as the blood-flecked blanket beneath him. With trembling hands, Will got off the boy, off the bed. He turned away from the ghastly scene, an unfettered sob escaping his throat._

_ "For God's sake, what's the matter with you?" Burke's words lashed at his back, echoing through the now silent room._

"...for God's sake, what's the matter with you? I've called your name four times already!"

Will looked up sharply to see Burke standing in the doorway, his eyes narrowed and blood-shot as they stared down at Will. Will merely swallowed and looked away, his own eyes equally shadowed and blood-shot from the restless night he'd spent. Sleep had eluded him. His conscience had kept him awake with its scorching litany of accusations.

"I don't think I can do this anymore," Will whispered morosely.

"What? Why not? It's nothing," insisted Burke. "The body's in the tea crate down the stair, all ready to be dispensed to the good doctor. It's nothing for us to carry it-"

"-that's not what I meant," said Will.

"Then what _do_ you mean?" asked Burke, in an ominous tone of voice. Then, his face softening, he approached the bed, sat down next to Will. It took everything Will had to not flinch, to not move away. Burke linked an arm around his shoulders, agreeable as a snake. He said, in what was meant to be a reassuring whisper:

"It's nothing, Will. _Nothing._ And to think, what would we do without the money? I, for one, do not wish to be hammering away at soles all day. Not when we can have _so_ much for _so_ little-"

"-it's not 'little'," Will said, closing his eyes. He felt Burke tighten his grip around him, and, despite himself, he found himself leaning into the perceived safety net of those arms, falling gratefully back into his embrace. His conscience pricked at him then, for an entirely different reason, as Will remembered falling back in a similar fashion into Dr. Knox's arms a mere two days prior to this...

_Not Knox, _his mind corrected, _Robert._

Will felt the faint brush of lips against the side of his face, tickling him like kitten whiskers. Burke was being far too patient and comforting. Will had the vague sense that he was being manipulated. After a few moments, he tried to disentangle himself from Burke's arms. But Burke kept his hold, refusing to let him up. Finally, Will said:

"Let go."

Burke's grip tightened like a hangman's noose around his shoulders. "Not yet. The crate can wait, I think. Let's stay here for a bit..."

Burke's hands began stroking Will's hands, his intent clear. Will felt lips again, this time by his ear, their ministrations leaving a sloppy trail down his neck.

"No." Once again, Will tried to disengage himself from Burke.

But Burke was having none of it. "Hush, now. Just let ol' Burke take care of you..." Burke's hands tugged at the hem of his shirt; he pushed Will back on the bed, pinning him with his greater weight.

"No!" This time the word was almost a shout as Will struggled beneath him. Then, suddenly, there was the feel of fingers grasping him about the throat.

"You whoring bastard!" Burke spat at him, all pretense at softness now gone. He pressed his hands on Will's windpipe in the same way he had done Jamie's. Will began to struggle wildly, clawing at the other man's wrists. In his mind, he pictured the look on Robert's face as his own body sat unwrapped, stiff and cold with death, on the hard, metal dissecting table...

"_You lie!"_

_ "I do not! How dare you accuse me of such?"_

_ "Then why will you not let me look in the crate? I swear I saw hair-"_

_ "-you saw nothing!"_

Both Burke and Will suddenly froze at the sound of raised voices echoing from downstairs. And, staring at one another in dawning horror, they instantly scrambled apart. They both got off the bed, with Will all but bolting from the room. He stopped to cram his shirt-tail back into his pants, then he walked shakily toward the stairs. From below, the argument continued:

_"I told his mother I saw him here just last night. The woman was frantic, asking about for her son. Why do you insist you never saw him, when I know good and well he was here!"_

_"Why do you say that he was? I never saw him-"_

_ "_What's going on here?" asked Will as his foot came off the last of the stairs leading into the parlor. Standing in the middle of the room was his wife, and his neighbor, Ann Conway. Both women wore angry, red-faced expressions. Will stood, looking back and forth between them. Then Ann said:

"Your wife here claims she never saw Daft Jamie, when I know good and well he accompanied her into these lodgings just the previous evening."

Will opened his mouth to make a denial, but Ann continued, ignoring him, "And now the boy's gone missing, and his mother came 'round looking for any word of him, and I heard your wife here tell Mrs. Wilson that she never saw him! And it's not true!"

"Go back to your own rooms, you daft old cow," hissed Mrs. Hare. Will heard a creak from behind him; he turned to see Burke standing on the stair, his murderous gaze aimed straight at the figure of Ann Conway.

But before anything could happen, Ann whirled around and slammed open the door, her retreating footsteps clapping loudly over the cobblestones. Through the open doorway, Will could see Wallace sitting on his little wooden stool by the stoop, a bottle in a brown paper bag half-covered by his foot. "Fine. I'll go," Ann said as she stormed off. "But I know what I saw." A small pause, and then:

_"And I know what it is you have in that crate..."_

_

* * *

_

_Edinburgh, Scotland, Present Day_

Dying never got any easier.

Even if you'd done it, say, oh...fourteen hundred times before-it still sucked. And it still hurt. It still felt like hell, like you were having all your nerves ripped out simultaneously and put into a blender, set on 'frappe.' It was like...

._..sticking your hand into a lake of fire. Before being pushed into it head-first..._

Jack woke with a gasp. He blinked several times, trying to right a world that had gone all...funny. Everything looked strange, out of proportion . The archway and sconce was all wrong, flipped around into some fun-house type configuration. And then he suddenly realized why: it was because he was looking at them upside down.

Jack was lying on a stone staircase, with his head on the bottom step and his body sprawled at what could only be described as an odd angle. He experimentally tried to lift his head and instantly felt something in his bones pop. Ah-ha! So that was it: the fall down the stairs had broken his neck. Lovely. He'd been ambushed and murdered by some unseen entity.

Just another day on the job then. _Why does this always happen to me? _thought Jack peevishly.

With effort, his joints shrieking in pain, Jack managed to pick himself up off the steps. The world righted itself, turning slowly, casually, back to the correct angle. The stairway he'd been maliciously pushed down-the last thing he remembered before everything went catastrophically black-was quite steep, with a wooden door barring its entrance. With aching limbs, Jack climbed back up to the top of the steps. He pushed on the door, but found that it wouldn't give. He pushed harder. Nothing. A rising anger flared his nostrils, made him clench his fists. _Goddam it! He wasn't going to be outsmarted and outmaneuvered by some ghost! Not after all the bullshit he'd lived through! Not after spending an entire year being tortured and killed and brought back to life by the Master over and over and over again! There was no way in hell he was going to let something like this defeat him!_

Behind him, the bulb in the sconce over the archway began to dim and flicker. Jack felt a sense of cold crawling over his skin-not a good sign. He turned and viciously kicked at the door that refused to open. Whatever it was that had trapped him down here-be it man or beast or ghost or alien entity-obviously meant him harm. So it was probably best not to stick around...

The light over the doorway pulsed in time with his heart: once, twice, three times, before flaring and going out. Jack was once again plunged into complete darkness. _Not this again, _he thought. And then something strange happened:

_Knock! Knock!_

A rapping sound came from the other side of the wooden door. Jack waited, frozen in the darkness. A couple of seconds passed, then it happened again:

_Knock-knock! Knock-knock-knock! Knock! Knock!_

Whatever it was on the other side of the door was obviously being cheeky with him as it rapped out a child's tune on the surface of the door. Jack held his breath. The persistent knocking came again:

_Knock-knock! Knock-knock-knock!_

Jack hesitated only briefly before lifting his hand, before finishing the tune from his side:

_Knock! Knock!_

Silence. Then suddenly, dimly, there was an odd sound, then the screech of metal as a bolt was hauled back. In the darkness, Jack could hear the protracted creak of the door as it was pulled opened. He felt his anger returning, felt it rising to the surface like a submerged chunk of ice. Jack didn't turn to run, didn't turn to flee. No. Instead, he barreled straight through the wooden door, straight into the glaring light that appeared from the other side.

And he hit something solid. Something made out of _flesh..._

He fell to the ground, grappling with this thing, this person, that he couldn't see. Couldn't see because of a bright white light that flared, that was shining directly into his eyes. Blindness of a different sort. He felt a pair of arms beneath him, and said, hesitantly, "Ianto?"

An unknown voice answered him. "Ianto? I'm not Ianto."

Jack had whoever it was pinned to the ground. He reached up, groping, and felt not a face, but...fur. Lots of fur. "What the hell?" muttered Jack.

"Stop groping me, you perv. Here, I'll take off the hat."

The light shifted. It moved away, out of Jack's face. Spots danced before his eyes. "Is that better?" There was a sound, a familiar, mechanical sound, and suddenly everything was enveloped in a soothing green light. Jack stared down at the man he'd all but tackled. A very young man with floppy hair and a bow tie and suspenders. A young man holding a thin metal object that hummed and emitted a greenish glow from an alien crystal...

_ Sonic screwdriver! _Jack couldn't believe his eyes or ears. His grip only increased at the revelation. "D-Doctor?"

"I told you to stop groping me, you intergalactic pervert. You haven't changed one bit, have you?"

Jack's eyes were bulging out of their sockets. "You...you've changed. Again." His eyes raked over the Doctor's new and unfamiliar form.

"Yes. Death'll do that for you..."

"You've...gotten younger."

"Yes."

"You look younger than me now," Jack said in an accusatory tone.

"Yes."

"That's not fair. You can't be younger than me."

"Why not?"

In response, Jack leaned forward and placed a big, sloppy kiss on the Doctor's newly regenerated lips. The Doctor pushed him away. "Down boy! Do you always have to be like this?"

There was a dreamy, smirking expression on Jack's face. "Sorry. I regret not doing that the last time we met. Thought I'd make up for it now." His eyes fell on what looked to be a large fur column with a lantern attached to it sitting on the ground beside him. "What the hell is _that_?" Jack reached down and picked up the object.

"You like it? It's one of the hats from the military tattoo. I strapped a torch to the top, and voila! Instant miner's helmet!"

"It's certainly a stupid looking miner's helmet. It's almost as bad as that bow tie you're wearing. I take it your fashion sense didn't regenerate with the rest of you?"

"_What_? What are you talking about? Bow ties are cool..." The Doctor popped up, grabbed the furry hat from Jack and strapped it back to his head. Jack immediately started laughing at the sight.

"Laugh it up, Harkness. I don't see _you_ with a light. Maybe I should let you wear the hat."

Jack held up his hands in appeasement. "That's okay. I wouldn't be caught dead wearing that thing-" Jack's snarky comment was interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps echoing through the corridor. The Doctor turned his head at the sound, and said, in a whisper, "I think we should probably get a move on. We're intruding on a little passion play that keeps repeating itself down here." With that, the Doctor grabbed Jack's arm and they hurried back down the stairs and through the darkened archway.

"What are you talking about?"

"There is the most interesting phenomenon happening inside these vaults," the Doctor whispered excitedly as they moved through different, but almost identical-looking, chambers. "There's a strange time-loop taking place. I haven't quite worked out all the details yet, but it has something to do with this landlord, and a little girl-"

"Mr. Boots," whispered Jack, remembering the name from earlier. The name had been pronounced, like a warning, through the sound of a little girl's voice; the memory of it was like an auditory hallucination in his head. He turned to look at the Doctor in the bright, shifting light. There was, as always, that look of child-like wonder, of excitement, on the Doctor's face. That look the Doctor always had whenever he was working out a particularly fascinating puzzle. And even now, even with a different face, that look had the power to draw him in, the power to tug at his heart.

_His always beating heart..._

"Mr. Boots? Is that what they call him? Such a fuzzy-wuzzy name for such a malevolent entity," the Doctor commented dryly. "Anyway, at some point the evil landlord apparently pushes the little girl's mum down a flight of stairs..."

Jack snickered. "Already did that part. Broke my neck and died on the way down."

"Really? Ouch. Well, if we don't find a way out of here, I'm afraid both our necks may be in jeopardy, as I haven't the slightest clue how to break the time loop."

"You don't?"

"No."

"Do you know the way out then?"

"No."

A slight pause. "What are you even doing down here?" asked Jack.

"Rescuing you, of course..."

"Of course. But you don't know how to stop the ghost. And you don't know the way out. Some rescuer you are..."

"Tch! Have a little faith, Jack. I'm working on a...thing."

"Uh-huh. A_ thing."_

"Now, now," said the Doctor with a raised finger. "Respect the _thing_."

"How did you even know to find me down here?"

"Ah! See...this is the reason! Left myself a little note way back when. Or maybe that's way later. Whichever." The Doctor reached inside his blazer and pulled out a newspaper. He unfolded it, and in the advertising section-which had a notice about the city's proposal to fill the South Bridge vaults with rubble-was a hand scribbled note about Jack and the catacombs and the present time period.

"See!" said the Doctor cheerily, holding the page underneath the lantern light. "Left it for myself in the collection plate at St. Giles on the High Street, 1828." Jack stared down at the paper. He took it from the Doctor's hands and flipped it over to the front page. In large, dark letters the headline read:

_ WILLIAM BURKE FOUND GUILTY OF WEST PORT MURDERS! DOCTOR RECEIVING CADAVERS CLAIMS NO KNOWLEDGE OF FOUL PLAY! EXECUTION TO TAKE PLACE THREE WEEKS HENCE ON THE SQUARE AT LIBBERTON'S WYND!_

"That again," muttered Jack suspiciously.

_End Chapter 8._

_Well, that was tons of fun to write! I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. (Bats eyes) Leave a review if you like! Just press the fun button down at the bottom..._


	9. Chapter 9

_Hello everyone! Every year when fall begins, I sort of slip into a kind of depressive mental malaise, and it gets hard(er) for me to motivate myself (so emo, I know). All I'm saying is, it was difficult for me to get this chapter going. Really difficult. But hopefully, everyone is still enjoying the story, and I promise there will be a lot more surprises ahead (I so love a good surprise!). So please, if you want to give the author a mental carrot, then click the little review button at the bottom of this page when you're done reading..:) -Thanks! S.E._

Chapter 9: Victims and Circumstance

_Edinburgh, Scotland, 1828_

Will was walking along Candlemaker's Row, his head bowed beneath his blue cap and his hands shoved deep within his pockets. It was late afternoon, and the sky overhead was darkening with the looming presence of storm clouds. Thunder rumbled in the distance, like the stomach of a hungry, grumpy giant. Through the black iron gates of Greyfriar's kirkyard, Will could see a procession of figures moving amongst the headstones, figures dressed in inky black, walking slowly, with a large, wooden box hefted above their heads. Will stopped for a moment, stared at the sight. He felt a coldness settle in his chest, whether from the scant parade of the dead or from the sudden chill in the air, he couldn't tell. He shivered once, then started to move away from the gate, until-

_Clank!_

Will froze as he found his way barred by a wooden cane, the tip of which rested noisily on the iron bars of the gate. Will's eyes followed the length of the cane, up to the man who held it: a young man with light hair and eyes who was no older than himself. Light, sea-colored eyes which had a devious, calculating look to them. Will thought he was being threatened, until the young man's face broke out in a wily smile, and he said:

"Oi, I know you! You deal with Dr. Knox."

Will became alarmed. He had just come from Dr. Knox's residence at Number 10, Surgeon's Square and had purposely taken a circuitous route home, a decision made out of a growing paranoia and fear of a certain person. His mind screamed: _He knows! You're being followed! _Until the next words that fell from the young man's mouth:

"I deal with Dr. Knox as well. In the manner of...finding subjects." There was another of those wily smiles. "The name's James Hewitt. But you can call me Jim." The young man tucked his cane under his arm and held out his hand.

Will shook the other man's hand, inwardly sighing with relief. "William Hare. I go by Will." So, the young man was an actual resurrectionist, and he thought that Will was a fellow in the trade. But his relief was short-lived as Jim quirked his head to the side, and said:

"You know, I've been hearing the names of Burke and Hare for months, and yet...and yet, we've never crossed paths. Out in the field of business, I mean." Jim nodded meaningfully towards the kirkyard.

Will practically blanched at that pronouncement. It never occurred to him that his and Burke's 'activities' might be noticed by other so-called 'resurrection-men.' But then, as in any business, it was probably natural for Jim to want to familiarize himself with his competition. Jim noticed the somewhat panicked look on Will's face, and misinterpreting it, he said casually, "Oh, I'm not here to scout out the burial. That kirkyard's too well-guarded. _ Really_ well-guarded. Mr. Black would put me back in the pen for 'vi-o-la-tion of sepulchres' for sure. And I've only just gotten back out." Jim tilted his head to the side and grinned maniacally.

A warning crack of thunder cut through the conversation. "Pardon me, I really need to be going," said Will, in what he hoped was a natural tone of voice. He turned and began to make his way back up Candlemaker's Row. From behind him, Jim said, in an insinuating voice:

"Tell the good doctor that I'll be coming 'round to see him again. Real soon." Will's head swiveled, and he looked back over his shoulder, back at Jim who was leaning casually against the kirkyard gate with a devious expression, leaning in his gray suit and tall hat, grinning like a gargoyle in a crouch.

No, Will had not been mistaken about Jim's intent. Jim was definitely here to 'suss' out his competition. Only, the competition had nothing to do with the business of delivering dead bodies.

The competition was for the good doctor himself.

* * *

Will's head was filled with conflicting thoughts as he moved mindlessly toward his house in Tanner's Close. But for once, his thoughts had nothing to do with Burke or his wife or the numerous murders that had taken place under his roof. No, his thoughts were on Robert, on the elegant rooms that filled his manse far up on the hill, and on the growing relationship-the growing _love_-that the two of them shared. Or that he _thought_ they shared. Maybe he was mistaken. Maybe he was nothing, absolutely nothing, to the rich, brilliant, educated Dr. Knox. Maybe he was just one in a long line of play things, wedged somewhere in between the Alexander Millers and James Hewitts of the world. Maybe all the things that the two of them talked about in the close, intimate setting of Robert's private chambers meant nothing. Maybe it was all lies. Maybe-

"Mr. William Hare?"

Will was shaken out of the drunken stupor of his thoughts at the sound of his name being called. Without even noticing it, he had made it all the way back to the main street of his house, and there, standing at the head of the shallow steps that led down to his building, was a man in a deep blue uniform covered with brass buttons. A police officer. Warning bells clanged and chimed noisily within the suddenly silent sanctuary of Will's mind. All thoughts of Robert flew out the window as he was confronted with the stern, unfriendly face of the officer in front of him. Ann Conway's words from two days ago returned, echoing like an auditory phantom through the now empty corridors of his thoughts:

_"I know what I saw, and I know what it is you have in that crate..."_

Another warning crack of thunder, preceded by a blinding flash of lightning that bleached the cobblestones a heavenly white. "Mr. William Hare?" the officer repeated.

"Yes?"

"I'm officer John Fisher. If you would be so kind as to accompany me inside, I would like to ask you a few questions."

His nerves growing numb with fear, Will obediently followed behind Fisher as he turned and walked down the steps leading into his house. Overhead, the flood gates of heaven finally broke open, and a torrential downpour began to batter the stones and bricks, handily drenching Will just before he made it through to the safety of his lodgings. _Only his lodgings weren't safe..._

Will's panic intensified as they entered the front parlor only to find another man, morbidly pale and dressed in unadorned, clerical black, scribbling into a ledger of some sorts. The man's head was bowed over his task, and he barely looked up as both Will and Fisher entered the room. Off-hand, Fisher said, "Mr. Hare, this is Alexander Black, police surgeon and lead inspector." Will stared openly at Black, as he thought back to the conversation he'd just had with Jim in front of Greyfriar's:

"_...Mr. Black would put me back in the pen for sure..."_

Will walked in a daze to his kitchen table, where he sat down heavily in a chair. He watched as Black grabbed Fisher's arm as he passed, watched him whisper something too low for him to hear into his ear. Fisher merely nodded, then he joined Will at the table. It was only then that Will noticed how silent it was inside his house. No thumping footsteps, no prattling conversations. _So where was Madge? Where was Burke?_ And then, as if he had spoken these questions aloud, Fisher said to him:

"We have already taken Mr. Burke and Mrs. Hare into custody down at the station. We've already asked them a number of questions but felt that further inquiries needed to be made into the situation." Fisher paused; Will watched him exchange a look with Black, who nodded for him to continue. In that moment, Will felt the same kind of chill he'd experienced in front of the kirkyard; felt it crawl, like silken, slithery earthworms over his skin. Like he was a corpse in the grave. Then Fisher continued, driving home his words like nails into a coffin:

"And just how you answer these questions, Mr. Hare, will be the determining factor as to whether or not you'll be joining them this evening..."

* * *

_Edinburgh, Scotland, Present Day_

"We're going around in circles," Jack whined.

Jack and the Doctor were traversing yet another stone corridor with yet another red-tinted bulb set into a distant archway with yet another set of identical doorways leading off both left and right. The Doctor didn't respond to the complaint; he merely stopped to peer at the little green crystal in his sonic screwdriver as if he were checking the room's temperature. For all Jack knew, he _was _checking the room's temperature. The man's actions were completely unfathomable...

"I can't believe you're actually here alone," said Jack conversationally as he plodded behind the Doctor, who veered off sharply into another long room. "You _never _travel alone."

"Oh, I'm not really alone. My two companions are currently off enjoying their honeymoon."

Jack raised an eyebrow at this information. "You're taking on married couples now? Wow, that's kinky..."

"I know it's a somewhat difficult exercise for you Jack, but could you please get your mind out of the gutter?"

"I guess the policy 'what happens in the TARDIS, stays in the TARDIS,' is still in effect, huh? Hey-you still got that hot tub in your kitchen?"

"Shut up, you! Oh, ugh, now that _is _revolting! Gah!" The Doctor turned back around and plowed straight into Jack. And Jack, grabbing him by the shoulders, simply smirked and said:

"Throwing yourself at me already, eh? See, the old Harkness charm never fails-"

"-creepy dolls!" squeaked the Doctor, pointing back over his shoulder.

Jack grabbed the light on the Doctor's hat and swiveled it back towards the wall. It was true. There were dolls. Rows upon rows of dolls, sitting clumped together on the ground. Dolls with dirty, cracked porcelain faces and blank expressions and frilly, fraying dresses. Jack suddenly remembered.

"Hey! Ianto said something about dolls earlier."

"Ianto?"

"Yey, one of my team members. We got separated down here. I...uhm, I kind of lost him."

"That's very careless of you, Jack. Misplacing someone like that."

"What? Are you kidding me? You are the master of losing people."

"_I_ do not lose people. They wander off on their own. And usually after I have specifically told them not to-"

_Leave now..._

A hushed whisper cut through the chamber, and the Doctor grabbed onto Jack, holding him in a death grip. It looked like they were embracing. Instead of getting mad, Jack merely held on, enjoying the sensation. A sense of guilt pricked at his conscience like a needle as he thought of Ianto, lost somewhere in the catacombs. Ianto, who was going to be pissed because he had missed their date at the Witchery. Ianto, the person he was currently sleeping with. Ianto, who would give him more than just his usual disapproving frown if he could see him with the Doctor right now...

"Jack, I do hope that's your revolver I'm feeling right now."

Jack and the Doctor sprang apart, just as the light over the doorway began to flicker off and on. Another whisper, belonging to the voice of a little girl, said:

_He's coming..._

Jack and the Doctor looked at one another in mirroring horror, and they sprinted out of the chamber containing the shrine of dolls. They stalled in the long corridor, unsure as to which way to go.

"_Should we-"_

_ "Maybe that way-"_

_ "No, that way-"_

_ "No, I think perhaps-"_

A strange thumping sound echoed through the hallway: _plunk-plunk-plunk! _ The Doctor aimed his light at the floor, revealing a little red and white ball bouncing across the ground, a child's rubber ball which rolled to a stop by his feet. Jack gazed at the object in wide-eyed terror. "Oh, that's not good."

"No," said the Doctor, with an excited expression of dawning comprehension. "It _is _good." The Doctor picked up the little ball and tossed it back into the darkness, back down the corridor from which it came. "Come on, let's go. We follow the bouncing red dot." The Doctor took off down the hallway, and Jack followed behind him, the two of them careening through various archways as the lights overhead pulsed and dimmed, painting them burning red one moment, then icy blue the next. Behind them, in the distance, there was the echoing sound of loud, stomping footsteps.

"It's him again," muttered Jack darkly.

"It's okay. _She's_ leading us out." The Doctor stopped to pick up the rubber ball which had rolled back to his feet again. Again, he tossed it back down the corridor and followed behind it. The lights overhead flickered once, twice, then died altogether. Jack felt the air go cold, and his nerves grew tense at the unseen threat that loomed somewhere in the darkness. The Doctor kept repeating the exercise with the ball, as Jack mentally prayed for the little girl-or entity or spirit or whatever it was-to hurry up and get them out of there.

There was the sound of heavy, erratic breathing, the sound of clomping footsteps. _Do not look back...do not look back...do not look back... _Jack mentally repeated to himself as he stumbled on through the blackness a few paces behind the Doctor, who was little more than a bouncing torch beam in the dark. There was the sudden unexpected flash of a strobe light, revealing a cast of shadows on the ground: one, two, three. _Three! _ Jack froze. "Doctor," he whispered. "I think he's here."

"Move, Jack, move!" Jack felt the Doctor grab the collar of his coat, felt himself being propelled forward. "Snap out of it; we're almost there. Can't you feel the change in the quality of the air?" The hand on the back of his coat was there, then suddenly gone. Somewhere in the darkness before him he heard the Doctor say, "Oh...hello. It's you."

He watched the Doctor's torch beam play over the worn, gray steps of a curving stairway. _A-ha! A curving stairway! _Jack had no doubt that it was the same one he and Ianto had used to get down into the vaults. _Yes! Freedom! _Jack hurried toward the steps, but was stopped by the Doctor at the base. "Careful. She's shy," the Doctor whispered quietly. It was only then that Jack noticed that the Doctor's gaze was trained on something near the top of the stairwell. In the beam of light, Jack saw a flash of little brown boots, the pale hem of a gown.

The Doctor's hand was pressed firmly against his chest, holding him back. "Don't look at her face, Jack," warned the Doctor. Jack tore his gaze away from the stairs to stare at the Doctor. His expression was one of sorrow, his head bowed in an attitude of regret. _What's wrong with her face? _thought Jack. _She isn't wearing a gas mask, is she? _The border of the beam stopped at the girl's knees; it went no further. After a moment, the brown lace-up boots turned and went up the stairwell, slipping silently, silkily away into the velvety blackness. Jack felt the Doctor's hand fall away. "Come on, let's go," he said, and he began to climb the steps. Jack followed behind him, followed him up to the entryway, the entryway which ended with a decades-old wooden door. An old, heavy door with a rusty iron grill set into it, the opening of which had the sweet scent of the chilled night air wafting through it. Through the iron slats, Jack could make out the starry night of the Edinburgh sky.

"Yes!" Jack all but kicked the wooden door open, and he bounded out triumphantly into the night air. Behind him, he heard the Doctor speaking softly into the vault: "Don't worry, dear. I promise I'll come back one day and figure out a way to get you out of here..." Jack felt elated with his new found freedom. Just then, his phone buzzed, spasming like a trapped insect in his pocket. He took it out and flipped it open. "Jack Harkness speaking." On the other end of the line was Ianto's voice, an almost tangible feeling of relief melting through his words:

"Jack! Thank God! I thought I'd lost you for good!"

"Aw, c'mon now, you know you can't get rid of me that easily, Jones." Then: "Where are you?"

"Back at the hub with Albert."

"Stay there. We're coming to you."

"_We_?"

"Yes, we. I have a special visitor here that I want you to meet in person."

"Oh? Who?"

"The Doctor."

_End Chapter 9._


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10: Guilty Parties

_Edinburgh, Scotland, 1828_

The cold, colorless stones of the tiny room vibrated with the rumbling sounds of thunder, as a late Spring storm continued to rage across Edinburgh. Will focused intently on the tempest in a useless effort to block out the various, strange voices that called out from the numerous cells around him, in an effort to block out the chilling reality of the situation itself. Namely this: that he was stuck inside a prison cell in the jail house just off the High Street, his fate balanced on the capricious scales of justice's uncertainty.

His interview with the police earlier that day had not gone well...

_"Mr. Hare, are you acquainted with Mr. James Wilson, otherwise known as Daft Jamie, who resides at Stevenlaw's Close?" asked officer Fisher._

_ "Yes."_

_ "And have you seen this individual at any time over the past three days?"_

_ Will hesitated. Unsure of what to do, he simply lied. Lied, because that was, no doubt, what his wife and Burke had done._

_ "No," he answered._

_ "What about on the 11th?"_

_ Two days ago. Again Will hesitated before answering, his blue eyes staring down at the lines and whorls in the wooden surface of his kitchen table. "No, I didn't see him."_

_ "What if I told you that I've already spoken with several witnesses who said they saw Mr. Wilson here at these lodgings on the 11th?"_

_ "Then I would say they were mistaken."_

_ "Are you certain of that? Mr. Wilson was a very...colorful character. It would be hard to mistake him for someone else."_

_ "He wasn't here."_

_ "Mr. Hare," a deep voice interrupted them, as Alexander Black cut into the conversation. He was still standing in the middle of Will's parlor, his head still bent over his ledger. "Upstairs in the second room on the right, there is a quantity of blood on the blanket, on the mattress, and on the floor. Care to explain how it got there?"_

_ Will looked up sharply. Black was watching him intently, his eyes knowing, even as his expression remained perfectly blank. Will faltered. "I...I don't know anything about that."_

_ "Are you sure?"_

_ "Yes."_

_ "Your wife said it was from a woman lodger who had lain there a fortnight ago. She said that the room, and the bed, hadn't been washed since then. Do you agree with her statement?" Black read the words directly from his ledger, firing off each statement like rounds from a cannon. Both he and Fisher turned to stare expectantly at Will, waiting for his answer._

_ Will felt the air leave the room. It was like someone had dropped an invisible noose around his neck, and it was slowly, so very slowly, tightening its length around his throat. He knew there was a look of fear, of uncertainty, on his face, and he couldn't dispel it. He wished he could simply disappear into the floorboards, wished he could vaporize into the ether. He wished that these two men and their questions would go away._

_ But they didn't go away. They both remained where they were, eagerly awaiting his answer._

_ "I...I suppose so."_

_ "So you agree with her then?"_

_ "Yes."_

_ "What if I told you that such a thing was impossible? That the blood was obviously no more than, say, two days old at most?"_

_ Will looked startled. He felt his hands gripping the edges of the table, unconsciously holding onto the wood as if holding a lifeline. He looked up to find Black staring at his fingers, at his straining, ghost-white knuckles. Will immediately dropped his hands back into his lap._

_ Fisher resumed talking. "We have located some of Mr. Wilson's personal effects at a pawn shop off St. Mary's Wynd. Things that he had on him at the time of his disappearance. A gold pocket watch and an inlaid snuff box with a copper spoon. The watch was placed there under the name Margaret Hare. Was that by your instructions-"_

_ "-no!"_

_ "And you're certain of this, Mr. Hare?"_

_ Will's hands were shaking in his lap, shaking with both fear and anger. How could Madge be such a fool..._

_ "The snuff box and copper spoon were deposited under the name William Burke," interjected Black. "Have you any knowledge of this?" Will looked up sharply, finally meeting the cold, calculating eyes of Alexander Black dead on. And what he saw there chilled his bones, sped up his heart. In that instant, he saw Black's true feelings about the situation:_

_ He was enraged. Disgusted and enraged by everything that was going on here. And he was utterly, doggedly determined to put a stop to it..._

_ Will's eyes dropped to the floor. Across from him, he heard officer Fisher say, "Well, I think that about does it for now. I believe further questioning is in order, considering all the contradictory statements we have heard here. Wouldn't you agree, Black?"_

_ Black merely grunted in assent. Again, there was that feeling of rage, of disgust emanating from the man. As if he would like nothing better than to lunge forward and pound Will's head repeatedly into the surface of the table. And the only thing stopping him was the cold, hard letter of the law, his own sense of judicial order._

_ Fisher's chair scraped back like the squeal of a pig. The officer stood up and began to recite, by rote:_

_ "Mr. William Hare, by the power of the Crown I will now commend you to the police offices on the King's Street, where you will be detained for further questioning regarding the disappearance of James Wilson, also known as Daft Jamie..."_

Will stared down at the dirty floor of his cell, at the frayed, threadbare cot he was sitting on. He remembered every single word of his exchange with Fisher and Black. Remembered, and regretted. He had been such a fool, such a trusting, ignorant fool, and now he was paying the price for it. It wouldn't surprise him if all of their necks-his, Burke's, and Margaret's-ended up in the halter for what they had done, for all the brutal crimes they had committed. And in a strange way, Will was glad. Glad that this was finally all coming to an end. Glad that he could finally let go of the screaming accusations of his sleepless conscience. Glad that he didn't have to be in Burke's power anymore...

Loud, slapping footsteps cantered through the hallway outside of his cell, growing louder as they grew closer. Abruptly, the steps halted, their echoes falling away into a dead silence outside his wooden door. There was the clank of metal, the jingling of keys, and then a bolt was scraped back, its shriek enhanced by a simultaneous clap of thunder. The door to his cell flew open, and outside stood two police constables, their expressions as grim as a pair of morticians as their dual, blank stares fell upon him.

"Mr. William Hare, sir, if you would accompany us..."

Will's eyes grew round with fear. "Accompany where?"

The second constable answered. "To the interrogation room, sir. Where Mr. Black and Mr. Scott will be conducting an official interview, to decide whether or not there will be any formal murder charges levied against you..." With that scathing pronouncement, Will stood, and he just barely managed to swallow back his growing fear, one that was triggered by those two all important words:

"_...murder charges..."_

_

* * *

_

_Edinburgh, Scotland, Present day_

"Look Jack! Blue boxes!"

Jack watched the Doctor as he dipped in between two old standing police boxes, an effervescent, child-like expression on his face. "Ooh, the dimensions are off. Not nearly as streamlined," he commented. "Plus, I don't think they have that all important time-and-space traveling ability that is essential to every good blue box..."

It was dark out in Edinburgh, and the lights of the Old Town winked and shimmered all around them as they walked across the Cowsgate from the South Bridge. Over the horizon, in the distance, Edinburgh Castle stood, lit from below like an actress standing before the footlights, its majestic beauty shining like something out of a gorgeous, Gothic painting. The entire scene was like something out of a fairy tale-a lovely, enchanted fairy tale. It was the perfect setting for a night of romance.

And Jack was torn.

The Doctor was saying something about Van Gogh and starry nights and-quite possibly-monsters, as they went on walking, but Jack barely heard him. He was lost in the quagmire of his own conflicting thoughts, lost in his own personal labyrinth of indecision. And it was all the Doctor's fault. His fault for showing up, out of the blue, and saving Jack's neck-literally-from being broken about ten more times. His fault for being so utterly delighted and entranced by everyone and everything around him, and for making everyone else who encountered him feel that way, too. His fault for showing up with a new face and looking-_gasp!_-so much younger than Jack, and who could blame him for taking notice, for being just a little bit infatuated? It was_ all _his fault...

_It was all his fault that Jack had become a better man..._

And that was the crux of it: the solid foundation of bedrock which lay beneath the ephemera of attraction. The Doctor was the one who had made Jack want to be a better man. A good man. So what, exactly, had Jack been before he met the Doctor? A petty con-man hopping around from place to place; a useless criminal with no real purpose or point or love for anything. And then the Doctor had come along and changed all that. He had shown him what it truly meant to live; he had shown him goodness. That was the reason Jack remained here, on this hulking rock of a planet, defending the oblivious-and often selfish, ungrateful-horde of humanity. Because the Doctor made it seem like the right thing to do. It was _all _because of him...

"Oh, that's lovely. Very nice, indeed."

Jack had been so completely wrapped up in his own thoughts that he hadn't noticed that they had arrived at Greyfriar's, that the church's stained glass windows were ablaze with vibrant shards of color behind the wrought iron gate. It _was_ lovely. He and the Doctor walked along the path to the church, past the shadowy arches of headstones and the darkened slabs of tombs. They walked on to the secluded corner of Covenanter's Prison, down its narrow path, to the frosty, claustrophobic interior of the Black Mausoleum. As predicted, the Doctor marveled at the novelty of the mausoleum's reality projection simulator, his delighted chuckle bouncing off the cavernous walls of the elevator shaft. He and Jack entered the elevator and rode the confines of the antique cage into the hub of Torchwood Scotland.

_You won't be able to hold him, _Jack's mental voice warned as he stood against the elevator's metal door, watching the Doctor intently inside the small, cramped space. _He's like air, an element impossible to capture or hold down. Essential, eternal. And he will leave again. Most definitely. Leaving is his one true talent..._

_ True, _Jack's internal voice answered. _But I won't know, unless I try..._

"...and then Queen Elizabeth said-that's Elizabeth the 10th, mind you-mmfph!"

The words were effectively cut off by Jack's suddenly questing lips and tongue. The elevator's metal grill creaked in cranky protest as Jack pushed the Doctor back against the wall, holding his body flush against his own. _Try and mistake this for a revolver, _thought Jack with a smirk. The Doctor, for his part, was neither responsive nor unresponsive. He managed to wrench his head to the side and said, in perfectly dulcet tones, "Jack, I hardly think this is appropriate-" before Jack claimed his lips again, intent on wrenching some sort of reaction out of him._ Yield to me-please, yield to me! _Jack let his hands wander beneath the beige blazer, fingers skirting over the contours of unfamiliar territory. Again, the kiss broke, with the Doctor squeaking, "Hands! Hands!" And then the elevator's bell chimed its bright, welcoming chime, the cage door was pulled back, and there, on the other side, stood Ianto, his face covered in a tapestry of confusion.

_Oh, shit! _thought Jack. _Shitshitshitshitshit!_

The Doctor sprang forward with his hand held out, his usually cheery greeting of, "Hello, I'm the Doctor," spilling forth. Jack could have banged his head against the elevator wall. The Doctor, for all his technological genius, was a complete idiot when it came to the particular nuances of relationships. The man was completely clueless. Jack wanted to take the elevator back up and start the scene all over again...

Ianto was staring down at the Doctor's hand with all the delight of an enraged weevil. Unsure of what to do, the Doctor merely dropped his hand, and then both men turned to look pointedly at Jack. Those twin stares made Jack want to shrink back into the confines of the elevator. That, or...

...suggest that they all have a threesome together back at the TARDIS! _Fuck, yey! Skinny dipping party in the library swimming pool!_

Of course, the look on Ianto's face dried up that suggestion faster than the desert on the Boeshane Peninsula...

"Uh, Jack, can I speak to you alone for a moment?" asked Ianto in a neutral tone of voice.

_Shitshitshitshitshitshit! _Oh, that blank tone of voice was like the calm before the storm...

Maybe if he was lucky, the poltergeist would bring the whole building down on top of their heads. _Please? Pretty please? _But as Jack dutifully followed Ianto into what looked to be some kind of kitchen/lounge area, Jack had a sneaky suspicion that he wasn't going to get any kind of reprieve from what was coming.

They entered the room, and Ianto closed the door firmly shut behind them. The camel-colored coat and scarf were gone, leaving him in his waistcoat and shirt sleeves. And, as he turned to face Jack with a cold, calm expression clouding his gorgeous blue eyes, Jack only had one crystal clear thought:

_He's s_o_ beautiful..._

"What's he doing here?" asked Ianto, his voice still perfectly neutral.

"I, uh, we ran into each other inside the vaults. He helped me escape."

"I see."

"No, Ianto, you don't. What you saw on that elevator-"

"-it wasn't what it looked like?" There was a vague sneer, the words lobbed at him like missiles of bitter disappointment. Such bitterness. Those six words caused Jack to hang his head in an unfamiliar feeling of shame.

_And_ _why do I feel this way? _ he thought. _It's not like me to feel this kind of guilt. Ever. Unless-_

Without warning, Ianto suddenly lunged forward and wrapped both arms around him, capturing his lips with his own. All thought ceased as Jack was pulled in by the other's heat, his mounting passion. Jack returned the kiss with eagerness, with burgeoning lust, as the two of them clung together in the center of the room. Slowly, deliberately, Ianto began to back him towards a sofa against the wall, and Jack allowed himself to be led, overcome, overwhelmed by the force of the other's desire. _So goddam hot! _Jack made no protest as Ianto pushed him down onto the sofa, his usually soft blue eyes hardened with an unfamiliar determination as he climbed on top of him. Then Ianto said, as he gently stroked the side of Jack's face:

"I'm not going to let him ruin this."

"No."

"It's going to be perfect."

"Yes."

Then there was a sharp, unexpected stab of pain in his left thigh, and Jack yelped, caught off guard by it. He looked down to see a needle sticking out of his leg, the plunger pushed all the way down. Confusion contorted Jack's face, and he looked up and said, "Ianto, what the hell?"

There was a calculating grin, and then: "I'm not Ianto."

And that image, those words, was the last thing Jack saw, were the last things he heard, before everything faded...

_Before the whole world went silently, fantastically black..._

_End Chapter 10._

_Hmm, I think that rock I was pushing rolled back down and smacked me in the face a few times. Oh well, I still managed to get the chapter in before the week was totally gone...(just barely)_


	11. Chapter 11

_Surprise, everyone! It's an early posting!  
_

Chapter 11: The Resurrectionists

resurrectionist: _noun, one who steals bodies from graves in order to sell them for dissection; a __**body snatcher**_

_Edinburgh, Scotland, 1828_

Will sat in an armless chair before a scuffed wooden table, staring bleakly down at the tin cup of water the constables had given him before they had vacated the room. It was a small room, hardly much bigger than his cell, with a single, tiny high window through which chaotic flashes of lightning filtered through, illuminating everything, sapping the wood and stones of all their color. Will waited with his hands fidgeting in his lap, waited for the imposing figure of Black and the unknown Scott to appear. Waited for some sort of news of his fate.

Such a wait was murder.

Sometime later, there came a cacophony of noise from the hallway outside the interrogation room. The shuffling sounds of footsteps, the echo of a pair voices: raised, arguing, parrying back and forth. One of them belonged to Black. Will caught snatches of words carelessly tossed back and forth from behind the door:

_"...hands are tied, Alex..."_

_ "...I don't care what Boyle says..."_

_ "...it won't stand in court..."_

_ "...Knox is just as bad, all the anatomists up on the hill are..."_

Will's head perked up at the mention of Robert's name, and he felt a sudden sense of cold wash over him. What if all the things that he and Burke had done had somehow incriminated Robert, had somehow gotten him into trouble with the law? Will's heart began racing in his chest, its beats low and fast like a highland drum, as the door to the room was suddenly pushed open, and Black and Scott stepped inside.

Archibald Scott wore a tailored suit of fine gray wool with a cream colored cravat and a whimsical checkered kerchief sticking out of his left breast pocket. His face was open, amiable, and composed entirely of circles. Black, in contrast, was still in his dark, unadorned long coat, his face grim, its planes made up of a series of triangles-Scott's geometric opposite. Scott sat down directly across from Will, whereas Black took a seat far off to the right, as if he didn't wish to be anywhere near Will. Again, there was that distinct feeling of disgust, of animosity, emanating from the man, radiating like heat from an open flame. It was as if he could barely stand being in Will's presence.

And in response, Will felt himself shrink into his chair a little.

Scott placed a dossier of papers on the table before him and said, in conversational tones, "Good afternoon, Mr. Hare. My name's Archibald Scott. And how have they been treating you here, hmm? Well, I hope." Scott craned his neck and looked into Will's cup. "Let's see what we can do about scrounging up some tea, shall we?" Then, in a loud voice aimed at the doorway: "Andrews, can you please see about bringing a tea tray in here for Mr. Hare and Mr. Black and myself?"

There was a scuffling noise outside the door and a muttered, "Yes, sir, your honour."

"There's a good lad." Scott turned his attention back to Hare, his smile indulgent, benevolent, like a priest before an altar. "Well, Mr. Hare, it seems that you've gotten yourself into a bit of a mess, yes?"

"I don't know, your honour."

"Ah, but _I_ know. I know that there is the possibility of some serious charges being laid at your doorstep." Scott paused and took one of the sheets from his dossier. "There is the matter of the disappearance of James Wilson, for one. And now two others. Mary Patterson and Elizabeth Haldane." Scott looked up at Will, waiting for a reaction.

_Do not react, do not react, do not react. _Will labored to remain perfectly still as the familiar names were read out, as he felt Black's piercing gaze burning a hole through his head from across the table.

The benevolent smile returned to Scott's face as he looked down at his papers. "You're not so very old, are you Mr. Hare? Your age is, what? One and twenty?"

"Yes, sir."

"And your associate, Mr. William Burke, is more than fifteen years your senior?" Will merely nodded, unsure as to where Scott was headed with these facts. Then: "I suppose, with Mr. Burke being so much older than yourself, that he might have been able to...exert a certain amount of influence over your actions. Yes?" Scott looked at him pointedly.

"I don't know what you mean, sir."

The door creaked open, and the constable with the tea tray entered and sat it on the table before Scott. Scott looked delighted. "Ah, let's see what we have here," he said, as he lifted silver lids. "Ooh, and biscuits, too! Bless you, Andrews." Scott watched the constable perform a curt bow before backing out of the room. All the while, Black was as still as stone.

Scott began preparing his tea, talking as he did so. "What I mean, Mr. Hare, is that we of the judicial system are not unfeeling, unsympathetic creatures of the law. We have it in us to understand the failings of our fellow man, to understand that mistakes are possible, even inevitable. No one is perfect. And you are a young fellow." Scott's silver spoon chimed merrily as a bell as it clinked against the side of his cup as he stirred in his milk. "What I'm saying is, we believe that it is quite possible that Mr. Burke may have led you into doing things, into committing acts, that you otherwise, left on your own, would not have done. Is that not correct?"

The spoon went silent, and Scott allowed the words to hang in the air, tossed out like a proverbial lifeline.

Will stared at Scott in slight disbelief and answered, somewhat hesitantly, "That is correct, your honour, sir."

Scott nodded at his tea cup. "Just as I suspected. So would you say then, Mr. Hare, that if it wasn't for Mr. Burke's influence, you would not be sitting here taking tea with myself and Mr. Black right now. Is that not so?"

_Take the lifeline. _"Yes, sir."

Mr. Scott nodded again. "And what would you say, Mr. Hare, if I told you there was a very simple way out of your little predicament. And one that would satisfy both yourself and justice's conscience all at the same time?" Scott's expression turned serious. "What I'm asking you, young man, is if you would consent to turn Crown's evidence against your associate-"

"-Archie!-"

"-Alex!" Scott hissed in warning across the table to Black. Will was startled by the familiarity of their exchange. He was surprised at the tense, mirroring expressions on the two men's faces. "Alex, this must be," Scott all but whispered. The two men glared at one another across the table, and Will watched as Black's jaw visibly clenched in anger, before he dropped his head in defeat. Then Scott turned his attention back to Will, back to the conversation at hand, and the words that fell next from Scott's mouth were as heavenly, as miraculous, as the words voiced by a choir of angels:

"Mr. Hare, if you are willing to agree to turn Crown's evidence against your associate, Mr. William Burke, and testify against him in court, then we have it in our power to grant you full immunity from prosecution underneath the law. _Full _immunity, you understand_. _ Do you accept this proposal, young man?"

It was as if the golden light of heaven had washed itself down over him, as if fate had finally decided to smile upon him, and Will finally saw an end to what had been an intolerable situation, an end to all his grief and despair and powerlessness. _An end to Burke._ And so he said the only thing he could say in his situation; just a single word:

_"Yes."_

_

* * *

_

_Edinburgh, Scotland, 1829_

The wind howled and raged like an angry banshee out for revenge, shaking the gabled rooftops and rattling the limbs of trees all throughout the streets of the tiny town of Dumfries. It was just past nightfall, and a small, creaky coach was making its way up the dusty, dirt-lined road which lead into the village, its precarious bulk pulling up to a stop outside a little tavern known as the King's Arms Inn. A tiny crowd of people disembarked there, hurrying out of the cold and into the glowing, welcoming fires of the tavern's interior. The only person left outside was a single passenger, and the only one who had been sitting on the outside of the coach. He disembarked slowly, waiting as all the other passengers moved past, moved on to settle inside the inn. Once alone, the mysterious traveler dropped down to the ground, the wind snatching at the woolen ends of the long dark cloak and hood he wore as protection against the elements, its drapery also providing him with a necessary, and blessed, anonymity. Under the welcoming cover of night, the passenger moved towards the golden, lamp-lit entrance of the inn, his steps soft, almost silent, as he emerged into the glowing sphere of the tavern's swaying, flickering lanterns. At his feet, a twisted sheet of paper fell, tumbling like a rogue bale of hay across the dusty road, tossed there by the force of the wind. The man bent to pick it up, revealing the front page of a newspaper, its headline announcing, in big, bold letters:

_MORE THAN 30,000 SPECTATORS TURN OUT FOR EXECUTION OF EDINBURGH MURDERER WILLIAM BURKE AT LIBBERTON'S WYND!_

The passenger's eyes skimmed over the headline. Finished, he allowed the paper to drop, to be carried off into the cold arms of the night on the wind's relentless power. Then he turned and pushed his way through the inn's doorway, wrenching back his hood to reveal dark blond hair and blue eyes. Inside, William Hare's nervous gaze raked over the unknown denizens of the inn, his thoughts now thoroughly occupied by what was on the front of that newspaper.

Burke's trial had been a lurid, chaotic spectacle. It had gone on to become Edinburgh's own personal form of entertainment, its own version of bread and circuses, the details of which had been splattered across every newspaper and broadsheet and penny page hawked by sellers in every corner of the city. The trial itself, which ran for twenty-four hours straight, had been pure torture. Both he and Margaret had testified as key witnesses against Burke, and both of their names had been dragged through the proverbial mud, along with everyone else's who had been even remotely involved with the horrid events of the past year. Robert Knox's name came up frequently, and there had even been talk of a possible indictment for the good doctor. Fortunately, such a thing never came to pass. That didn't stop an enraged citizenry, however, from burning his likeness in effigy in the square, from calling for his head on the block, or from smashing out all of the windows in his beautiful Surgeon's Square home. Will himself had to be protected from the mob by the force of the town militia, remaining cloistered within a cell at the High Street police station until his release. And even then, he was smuggled out of the building in the dead of night, escorted by Fisher who placed him, hooded and cloaked, on a carriage out of town.

It was impossible for Will to remain in Edinburgh. His face was too well known, too well hated. And yet he had dared on this night to venture as close as the village of Dumfries, had dared to turn his course away from his prior destination of Ireland, to slink, like a bandit, back into the dregs of this small border town.

And the reason for his change in destination waited in the corner...

"Will, over here."

Will turned to find the figure of Dr. Robert Knox seated discreetly in a far-off corner, far away from the intrusive, flickering light. The doctor's hands and face were luminous against the backdrop of his pitch-black clothes, his spectacles flashing like fireflies in the dark. Will couldn't keep the eagerness out of his steps as he quickly went to join his lover at the small table; he could barely restrain his need to throw his arms around the other man, even though discretion forced him to keep his distance, forced him to keep his arms by his sides. Will found himself smiling his first real smile in months, as Knox reached out to take his hand beneath the table.

"My dear, Will. Did you not believe me when I said that I would not abandon you?" the doctor asked softly.

"I-I wasn't sure. Not until I got your message at Portpatrick." Will swallowed as he choked out his words. He felt his eyes glazing over with unshed tears, as he tried desperately to hold back a flood tide of emotions that had been dammed up inside him for months. "I didn't think...I didn't think, after all that had happened, you would still want me-"

Will felt Knox squeeze his hand reassuringly beneath the table. "Of course I still want you, Will. How could you doubt it? There is no one else." Then: "I love you, you know. And I want you to leave here with me. We can go away together. To London, perhaps. Or Paris."

Will dropped his head at Knox's proclamation, the delivery so heart-felt and sure. The tears he'd been valiantly trying to hold back finally spilled over, the dam of his emotions completely broken open by those three all-important words. "I love you, too, Robert. It's just that after all the trouble I caused, after all the pain that I've brought you-"

"Shh...there now! It wasn't only pain that you brought me, Will," the doctor said stoically. "All those subjects that you brought me, they weren't for naught. Not at all." And here the doctor shuffled forward, his tone conspiratorial, almost confessional, as he said:

"I think I've finally found it, Will. The thing that I've been searching for since my days in South Africa..."

Will's head jerked up in surprise at those words, as he remembered the details of their private conversations, all those secret desires and wishes whispered to one another in the dark. Robert's secret dream: the reason for all the dead bodies and the research and the experimenting. Will hesitated, and then he whispered, "Are you certain?"

Knox nodded vigorously, the light on his glasses covering his eyes. "I've done it, Will. I have it. It's mine. _Ours_..." Knox paused meaningfully, then he whispered:

_"I have found the secret to immortality..."_

_

* * *

_

_Edinburgh, Scotland, Present Day_

_ "I'm not Ianto..."_

The captain's body went as still as frost as Will pulled out the needle and tossed it aside. He crawled off the couch, stood, and regarded the man on the sofa. _Beautiful. _ _Perfect. _He reached out a hand, touched the planes of the sleeping man's face, his touch one of desire, of reverence. _Absolutely perfect! _It was hard for Will to turn away, to leave the sleeping man there; the pull of the captain's body on his own was incredibly strong, almost ridiculously so. Ah, the mysteries of chemistry at work. Reluctantly, Will turned his gaze away from the unconscious man's face, his mind returning to the task at hand.

_The interloper had to go..._

Will reached inside the slumbering man's coat and pulled out the revolver he knew was hidden there. He hoisted the gun, clicked off the safety, and made for the door. Frown lines of determination contorted his features, gave his face the look of anger. His footsteps echoed loudly down the hallway as he approached the elevator, and the man who was waiting there.

_The Doctor had to go. There was no way he was going to allow him to interfere..._

The Doctor was standing by the elevator looking a bit lost, with his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. He perked up the moment he saw Will. "Ah yes! Ianto! Where is-oh! Whoa!" The Doctor's eyes turned dark as they alighted on the gun, which Will lifted and pointed directly between his eyes. Despite having a loaded gun drawn on him, the Doctor said, almost nonchalantly, "I take it you're upset about something?"

"I want you to leave. Now," Will stated flatly, and he began to back the Doctor slowly toward the elevator. The Doctor had his hands raised, had his eyes trained on the barrel of the gun, and he said, calmly, "Uhm, are you sure you don't want to talk about this first?"

"No. Stay away from Jack," Will answered coldly, threateningly. "And don't come back here. Ever." Once he had the Doctor inside the lift, Will slammed the cage-like door shut and hit the 'up' button. His eyes regarded the Doctor's coldly through the metal grid as the elevator creaked its way back to the surface. After he heard it shudder to a stop, Will went around to the maintenance box, flipped open the lid, and cut the power to the lift entirely. _There. No more of your meddling..._

Will clicked the safety back on the gun and tucked it into the back waistband of his pants. Then he turned and went in the opposite direction of the lounge, toward the room with all the TV monitors. Smiling, he pushed open the door and went inside. Sitting before all the flashing screens was Albert Ferguson, his eyes trained on the various scenes. Without turning he said, "Did you do it?"

"Yes," answered Will, as he came up behind the other man and entwined his arms around him. "Harkness is sleeping like a baby. He never knew what hit him. Your plan was perfect, Robert."

Knox snickered. "Harkness is a fool. And he's going to pay for it. With that wonderful, undying body of his. Among other things." Knox turned in his chair; he took Will's face in both of his hands and said softly, "I must say, the body of his young associate looks good on you, Will. It suits you. I couldn't imagine a more perfect match."

Will smiled. "_We'll_ be a perfect match, once it's all done." He bent down to kiss Knox softly on the lips. It was different from when he had kissed Harkness; there was a definite _zing!_ with Harkness that wasn't nearly as strong as with Ferguson's body. "I can hardly wait," said Will giddily.

"Then let's not wait," said Knox. He got up, and shoving his hands way down into the pockets of his duster, made for the doorway.

"Let's go see about getting me a new body..."

_End Chapter 11._

_Thanks to all of you who have been kind enough to comment on this story! Your encouraging words did wonders for my flagging motivation. And since it is unlikely I will have any writing time next week, I will try my best to knock out 2 chapters during this one..._


	12. Chapter 12

_Back to Jack's POV..._

Chapter 12: Sleepers and Awakenings

_Edinburgh, Scotland, Present Day_

_White light._

_ No sound. No feeling. Just...light._

_ Everywhere. All around._

_ Blinding, all-encompassing light._

_ Maybe it was...'the light.'_

_ You know, the light you were supposed to see. The one at the end of the tunnel. The one at the end of..._

_ ...everything._

_Maybe I'm really and truly dead,_ thought Jack. _Maybe the light isn't just a hokey metaphor._

_Or maybe..._

_ "Fees carting two turn round."_

_ What? What was that? A voice...a familiar voice._

_ "Year all toast reedy," said another voice. Another familiar, but unintelligible, voice._

_ The light before his eyes wavered, grew dark. Am I alive? _thought Jack._ Am I awake?_

_ Is this real? Or is this a dream?_

_ It had to be a dream, because..._

There was Ianto's face hovering above him. The light behind his head glowed, shimmered, like the halo on an angel. Jack tried to speak, tried to say what was on his mind:

"Yan...you...you're...an angel."

Ianto's face broke into an amused smile. Then he said, to someone else, someone in his periphery whom he couldn't see: "The drug's made him high."

"Never mind that, we need to get a move on, before the effects completely wear off."

There was a tingling sensation in Jack's limbs; the feeling one has when trying to come around from a particularly deep sleep. He wanted to move his hands, his head, but found he couldn't. He was trapped in a dream. A dream or...

Above him there came the silvery flash of metal, the threatening claws of a steely hand hovering above his face. _No! It couldn't be! Not that! Not that! No..._

_ The glove!_

_ The resurrection glove!_

_ Nightmare! It was a nightmare! _Jack began to struggle internally, even as his treacherous limbs refused to move. _I really am dead, _he thought. _I am dead, and that is the resurrection glove!_

The lights above him flashed: they flickered once, twice, then there was a hissing sound, like a symphony of snakes, and the feel of rain on his skin. A duet of angry voices floated around his head:

"What the hell?"

"The sprinkler system turned on."

"What? Why?"

"Do you hear that? It's the sound of the lift! It's gotta be him. The Doctor."

"Well, don't just stand there. Take care of him. This Doctor is obviously dangerous, particularly if he's the same Doctor who is mentioned in Torchwood's charter..."

The retreating sound of footsteps reverberated through Jack's head, like the echoes inside a cave. Jack tried to speak again: "Ianto...don't go...stay." There was an unpleasant snickering sound, and out of the ether appeared the face of Albert Ferguson, his mouth twisted with disgust. That was alright, because Albert was always disgusted with him, with his performance, one way or the other. Jack was used to it.

"Just sit tight, Harkness. And quit your blathering." Ferguson's face was there and gone, along with the feeling of rain. Then a voice said:

"Thank God for th-"

There was a loud_ CRASH! _and the sound of furniture being overturned. Curses hissed through the air, then were abruptly cut off. Jack began to struggle again; he succeeded in wiggling his fingers, in turning his head, but nothing more. As his head moved, his formerly fuzzy vision grew more focused, and he was able to see a yin-yang body of black and beige tussling with the glove. _The glove! _Jack began to struggle with renewed fear, with renewed vigor at the sight. The yin-yang broke apart, and the black part of the oval rushed out of his line of vision, taking the glove with him. _ No!_

_ But wait. The glove. It wasn't on the right hand. No..._

_ It had been on the left..._

Jack twitched as something was placed by his head. His eyes focused on it, with effort. Not the glove, but a similar, cylindrical shape. Brown and white, with red eyes like a demon. Red eyes and a tongue. His pupils dilated, focused, and he was finally able to see what it was.

A sock monkey.

There was a high, twittering sound, like a mechanical cricket, the glow of a green light, and suddenly a pressure he hadn't even realized was there fell away from his arms and legs. "Doctor?" Jack whispered, and the Doctor's face appeared before him, his hair even crazier looking than usual, and he heard him say:

"Here's a tip for you Jack: never attempt to strangle an adversary using a sock monkey. It makes a very poor weapon."

"Doctor...the glove...did you see..."

The Doctor's expression grew dark, darker than Jack had seen it in ages. "I saw it. And I don't like it. That...thing has caused more harm than you know, Jack." There was a strange, faraway look on the Doctor's face, an expression Jack couldn't interpret. Then, as if shaking himself out of a bad memory, the Doctor said: "C'mon, let's get you up and moving before they come back."

"They?"

"That man in the coat and the fake Ianto."

"The fake Ianto?" Then suddenly Jack remembered:

_"I'm not Ianto..."_

With the Doctor's help, Jack tried to stand and immediately fell back into the Doctor's steadying arms. Jack said, with growing alarm, "Doctor, if that isn't Ianto, then...

"...where is the real Ianto?" the Doctor finished for him, as he all but carried him toward the door of the room. "I think I may have the answer to that." Jack turned to look at the Doctor's suddenly stony face, and prompted, "Well?"

"I think I know where Ianto is," said the Doctor, then he added, in a whisper:

"And you won't like it."

* * *

Bit by bit, the feeling began to return to his limbs, so that he was no longer dragging his toes across the floor, so that he was no longer relying on the Doctor to help him stand. His nerve endings tingled and tweaked and sang with the bite of too-intense feeling. Everything, everything Jack touched seemed realer than real: the scrape of the tile, the scratch of his own collar on his skin. All of it seemed amplified; the sensations he felt were almost too intense to handle. It was like his muscles, his nervous system, had atrophied in over the space of a half hour, and now that he was up and about again, the light and the sounds were a shock to his system. It was too bright, too loud, too much. It was like he had been lying in a coma for years, and he was just now coming out of it, was just now learning how to feel again. The drug they had used to put him under must have been powerful indeed. His eyes squinted against the dull light of the hall, his ears pricked at the soft echoing sounds of their heels on the floor. Too bright, too loud...

"Here," directed the Doctor. He paused before a white door with a clouded glass window with the words 'INFIRMARY' spelled out in neat block letters underneath the glass. The Doctor gave him an odd look and paused with his hand on the knob. That look prompted Jack to ask:

"What? What is it?"

Hesitation. Then: "I told you, you won't like it."

There was a weird tingling sensation as Jack's brows drew together in a frown. "I know, but...what is it? What's wrong?" Jack craned his head but could see nothing beyond the foggy glass. Finally, he all but pushed the Doctor aside and said, almost angrily:

"Let me see."

The squeak of the door being wrenched open was like the screech of a wounded animal in Jack's ears. Inside was what looked to be a typical hospital room, painted a soothing, antiseptic white. All the overhead lights had been turned off, with only a single bedside lamp left on casting out a dim, amber light. That, along with the multiple, tiny lights given off by the army of machinery that was lined up around the bed. The small room was alive with the whirring sounds of technology: the wheezing, pumping sound of a respirator, the steady, mechanical _blip! _of a heart monitor. Jack stared with disbelief at the unmoving figure of a young man lying prone in the middle of the bed, blue eyes open and staring off unseeing into space. If it hadn't been for the undeniable presence of the bouncing dot on the monitor, Jack would have mistaken him for dead.

"But...what does it mean?" asked Jack, an alien note of fear edging its way into his voice.

"Jack, you know what it means," said the Doctor, without emotion. No coddling, no joking around.

"Doctor, you can't...you can't be seriously suggesting-"

"-I'm dead serious, Jack. You know that's-"

"-that's_ not_ Ianto! I don't believe you!" The sound of panic, of denial. _That's not my Ianto! It can't be!_

"Stop it, Jack. Saying it like that won't make it so," said the Doctor reasonably. "I assure you, that _is_ Ianto Jones lying in that bed, and the person who once occupied this body is now walking around inside his skin."

"Goddam Albert Ferguson!" Jack suddenly roared, his nostrils flaring with rage. "Wait 'til I get my hands on him-"

"-He's probably not Albert, Jack. Think about it. Look at the situation; look at the body on the bed. This was all a ploy, a trap that was set up to lure you here, so that they could use the glove on you and switch bodies. They just used poor Albert Ferguson as a seemingly legitimate front for carrying out their little plot. I mean, what could be more alluring to a body snatcher than a body that can't die?"

Jack had all but stopped listening to the Doctor. He walked, like a zombie, to the side of the bed. He stared at the body of the young man; then, with hesitating fingers, he reached out to touch his face. _Not my Ianto; no, not mine! _Jack's fingers were shaking as he ghosted the tips over the waxy skin. No response came from the bed. Behind him, he heard the Doctor say:

"Careful, Jack. His neck's broken."

Jack sucked in a breath at this pronouncement. Inside, emotions he hadn't realized he'd been withholding rose up to the surface. A cloudy film covered his eyes as he whispered to the body on the bed, "Ianto? Ianto can you hear me? Goddam it, blink once if you can hear me..."

Nothing. The blue eyes stared, unmoving.

"Please, Yan..."

_"Please, Yan..."_

_ Jack tilts his head, leaning back in his chair like a lazy, contented cat. As promised, he has sent the rest of the team home early so that he and Ianto can play one of Ianto's 'stop watch' games. Currently, Torchwood's resident secretary and 'coffee boy' is kneeling like a supplicant on the floor between Jack's legs; Jack's fly is open, and Ianto's very talented mouth is working a kind of blissful, arcane magic on his cock. On the desk before him, the little silver watch ticks on relentlessly, rhythmically: tickticktickticktick! Jack moans another appreciative moan, and cracks open an eye to stare at the face of the watch: just seven more minutes to go. If he comes before the seven minutes are up, then he loses, and Ianto wins his prize..._

_ There is a sudden jolt of pleasure as clever fingers begin to stroke and press the sensitive area between his cock and balls; Jack's back arches with abandon. Air hisses, unbidden, past clenched teeth. His control is beginning to slip, to vanish against his will._

_ Damn! At this rate, he's definitely going to lose..._

_ And that is okay, because Jack wants Ianto to have his prize. Jack smiles to himself in erotic bliss, in lustful expectation at his own defeat._

_Those skillful, clever fingers press against him mercilessly, teasing the outside of his sweet spot. There is also the ongoing assault of Ianto's tongue on his cock, along with the surprise scrape of teeth, and Jack is panting, is left perilously close to coming. Just a little more friction, just a little harder rhythm, and he's a goner. A definite goner..._

_ "Yan, please..."_

_ Ianto redoubles his efforts, sucks him even harder. Jack stares down at his subordinate's perfectly coiffed head bobbing up and down between his legs; it's a sight he never tires of. Next to him, the watch ticks on: tickticktickticktick! Four minutes and counting. Hmm. He's never going to make it. Never. He's not going to make it, because:_

_ The heady, pounding rhythm, the intensity of the friction is all too much for him to handle. The sight of that beautiful head, that beautiful body between his legs is too much for him to handle. And before he knows it, Jack is coming, coming in a burst of choice swear words, his back arching off the cushions of his chair. He's shoving himself down Ianto's beautiful, magical throat, and all is right with the world. In fact, the very best things in his world all begin and end with the man kneeling before him: from the very first cup of that delicious coffee he brings him in the morning, to the awesome, earth-shattering blowjobs that he gets from him before leaving the hub at night. The very best parts of his day begin and end with Ianto Jones..._

_Ianto drinks him down, then kneels back, triumphantly, on his haunches. Gorgeous blue eyes stare up into his own as he says: "You lost. Now I believe, sir, that you owe me a prize?" _

"_Hey, what did I tell you about dropping this 'sir' business," Jack says teasingly before hauling the other man up to his feet, before attacking his mouth with his own lips and tongue, before pressing him back onto the hard surface of the desk. Files, pens, and other forgotten objects fall heedlessly to the floor as Jack spreads Ianto across the desk. Jack's fingers begin to deftly work at his fly, his grin predatory as he says:_

"_Just lie back and enjoy your prize, Jones. You beat me fair and square." Without waiting, Jack is down between Ianto's legs, his tongue teasing, tormenting the secretary in short, caressing strokes. In this moment, in this act of pure carnal joy, almost everything from earlier in the day is forgotten, all the trials and tragedies and miseries. All the bad things that happened because of the resurrection glove. Because of Suzy and the glove. Even Ianto's words from before are a distant memory, their foreboding prediction forgotten, lost in this moment of undeniable bliss. Ten echoing words, which he suddenly remembers:_

"_That's the thing about gloves, sir. They come in pairs..."_

"Gloves come in pairs," Jack whispered to himself dumbly.

He stood silently and stared at the body in the bed, willing some sort of reaction from it. _Please, Yan, please!_

Then, with what seemed to be a colossal effort, the eyes slowly blinked, once. Jack released a breath that he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The movement of those eyes was both a victory and a defeat. Victory, because it meant that Ianto was still alive. Defeat, because it also meant that he was trapped inside a broken, paralyzed body. Still, Jack reached out to take the pale, limp hand into his own, and then he said with complete confidence, "Don't worry, Ianto. The Doctor and I will find a way to fix this. You can count on it. We'll put you back where you belong. They won't get away with it."

No response. Jack felt his heart drop a little, felt a tremor pass through his body. So much alien emotion. He felt a hand tapping at his shoulder, and he turned to see the Doctor motioning him away from the bed. Reluctantly, Jack placed the unmoving hand back on the bed and moved away from the strange, useless body that was currently housing the soul of his lover. In confidence, the Doctor bent his head toward Jack's and said in a whisper: "We have to find the other Ianto and the glove now, and bring them both back here so we can perform the switch. We should go."

"I know. You're right," said Jack. Then he looked guiltily back at the bed. "It's just that it feels wrong, leaving him alone like this."

"It has to be done," replied the Doctor stoically. "We need to go now."

"I know, but-"

"-no, you don't know, Jack," the Doctor insisted. "We have to find the other Ianto. _ Now._ Because-" and the Doctor's voice dropped into an even lower whisper:

"-I'm afraid that the clock on that body is very soon going to run out."

_End Chapter 12._

_There are some references and lines from the episode "They Keep Killing Suzy" in the flashback sequence. There are only a few chapters left in this story; I'm nearing the finish, folks. And if you've made it this far, then I hope you enjoy what's left of the ride...  
_


	13. Chapter 13

_Author's note: in this section, I will be switching back and forth between POVs at a more rapid pace; I like to do that in my fics sometimes, particularly when the action starts to get amped up. It's sort of like switching back and forth between camera angles. I'm warning you ahead of time, because I'm not going to label the sections; just know that when there is a page break, it means we're switching POVs (sometimes mid-action)._

_Otherwise, please enjoy..._

Chapter 13: Immortal Questions

_Edinburgh, Scotland, Present Day_

The plaintive squeak of the antique lift echoed eerily through the empty hallway. _Nothing. There was no one._ Just the lift, going up and down of its own volition. Someone had tampered with it. Set the controls to keep it in constant motion. Will watched the dim amber lighting of the hall as it filtered through the rustic metal grill of the cage, casting a shadowy spiderweb over the walls. Watched it as it came back down once again, its inside empty of passengers. Angrily, he went around to the main control box, flipped back the lid and punched the switch. He watched as the elevator stilled, heard it go silent once more. Will's eyes flicked back and forth suspiciously down the empty corridor. He had a notion that he'd been tricked.

_The Doctor, _he thought. _He's up to something. _The man had somehow managed to tamper with both the lift and the sprinkler system, like some kind of mischievous gremlin on a vengeful rampage._ Well, _thought Will,_ fiddling around with the machinery won't be enough... _He reached around, took out the stolen revolver and cocked it, and began to stealthily make his way back toward the room they were using as Harkness's holding cell. His eyes were frosty as he crept purposefully back down the hall. _You'll be sorry if the two of us meet now, _he thought. _I tried to make you leave us alone; I tried to make you stay away. But since you refuse to do that, then I'll just have to-_

The sound of running footfalls came pounding from around the corner. Louder, closer. Will froze; he aimed the gun in preparation. _You'll be sorry that you ever dared to interfere in this. _He narrowed his eyes over the sight in readiness, his heart drumming in time with the footsteps. Louder, closer. A dark figure rounded the corner in a blur, and Will almost squeezed the trigger, but stopped at the last moment when he saw who it was.

Robert. Out of breath and clutching the mystical glove, which was out of its case. He slid to a stop in front of Will and panted, "It's him! The bloody Doctor! He-he tried to strangle me! Tried to take the glove..."

"What?"

"We have to go now."

"Go? What? No! We stay and finish this. He's only one man-"

"-that is no man. I'm not sure what he is, but he's not human. Otherwise, why would earth need to defend itself from him?"

Will didn't argue with Robert's logic. Robert was brilliant, gifted. If he said the Doctor wasn't human, then he wasn't human-plain and simple. "Alright, but what do we do? Double back through the tunnel to the bridge?"

"No. Too risky." Robert lifted a hand to Will's new face. His touch was surprisingly gentle, his voice unusually soft as he spoke. "We can't risk having another...accident because of that _thing_ down in the vaults. I won't do it. I won't risk _you_ again." Robert dropped his hand and his expression grew steely, bitter. "Damn Albert Ferguson and his lack of disclosure. For mentioning some form of alien tech down there in his notes, but then leaving out the rest of it. The secretive bastard. I'd kill him all over again if I could."

Will's eyes flicked down to the glove. "It was his interest in alien tech that got him killed in the first place."

Robert smiled a devious smile and stroked the prized glove lovingly. "Yes, he was unable to resist this, and he fell right into our little trap. The same thing with Harkness. These Torchwood people-always letting their curiosity get the better of them. It's a wonder any of them are still alive."

"So what do we do about the Doctor?"

Robert began striding toward the lift, and Will dutifully followed behind him. "Nothing for now. Right now, we just need to get away from here. Harkness is going to wake up, and when he does..." Robert paused to gaze long and hard at Will who went around to restore power back to the lift. Their eyes met through the diamond pattern of the elevator's metal skeleton.

"...and when he does, I imagine he's going to want back the thing that I stole from him."

* * *

"That fucking bastard! He's not going to get away with this..."

Jack's jaw was set in a rigid, angry line as he stalked away from the medical bay, away from the scathing, overwhelming evidence of his own failure. _I'm sorry, Ianto, _he thought miserably. _ I promised I'd protect you, but I failed. I failed, and now I have to make this right. _The Doctor dogged his steps, his repeated mantra of "Jack you need to calm down" falling on deaf ears. Jack kept on walking, his icy gaze staring straight forward, seeing nothing, nothing but the unmoving body on the bed..

_Sorry...so, so sorry._

"Jack, I'm so sorry to bother you in the midst of what the westerners like to call a 'God almighty hissy fit,' but have you by chance actually taken a moment to come up with some plan of action?"

"No." His response: flat, stony, lifeless.

"I see. Lovely. Now, would you care to, oh, I don't know, stop and maybe-possibly-sorta try to reason this out?"

"No." Again: flat, stony, lifeless.

"I see. Lovely." Jack kept marching; the Doctor kept following. "So we're just going to go after the two of them unarmed and unprepared?" Jack paused to check the inside of his coat; his revolver was missing. "Shit," he said. He turned to the Doctor. "What do you have on you?"

"Me? Besides a very threatening sock monkey, I have one sonic screwdriver, a yo-yo, a TARDIS key, a pair of souvenir sunglasses from Pen Haxico 2. Oh, and a bag of rather ancient jelly babies that I think were misappropriated to the wrong coat in the TARDIS wardrobe."

"So you got nothing."

"I got nothing."

Jack rolled his eyes and continued to stride purposefully forward until he came to the entrance of Albert's control room. Jack pushed the door in and went straight over to the wall with the TV monitors. He found the keyboard on the metal workstation and rewound the CCTV tape for the various cameras. Jack's eyes flitted across the screens like a butterfly, searching desperately for some sort of clue. Screen one: nothing. Screen two: nothing. Screen three: nothing. Screen four: _Ha!_ _Yes! There! _Jack's gaze halted on the monitor that showed the entrance of Covenanter's Prison. He watched the playback footage, watched as both Albert and the false Ianto walked into the frame. Watched as the two of them went-with the glove in tow-out the wrought iron gate. Jack glanced at the time on the monitor. Just five minutes ago. _They could still catch them; they still had a chance! _Jack whirled around, grabbed the Doctor's elbow and said,

"They're leaving Greyfriars. C'mon, we've got to catch them!"

* * *

The chill of the night air bit into Will's skin as he and Robert picked their way through the cemetery's headstones, as they ducked beneath the darkened, outstretched limbs of the low-hanging trees. In the background, over the kirkyard's back wall, Will could see the massive stone structure of Edinburgh castle, its ancient walls lit from below, like something magical from a child's dream. The castle had always been there; it had always looked like this. The kirkyard, the church, had always looked like this. For nearly two-hundred years, these things had remained, constant, frozen like insects in amber. All frozen in time. It was strange, how little the Old Town had changed over the last two centuries. Strange how familiar, how unchanging, this view was.

Strange how Will never tired of it.

"Do you think we should leave the city?" he asked.

"Maybe," replied Robert distractedly. "Let's just get to the church. I have some things stashed there, for emergencies." Will smiled. Leave it to Robert to be prepared like this; the man thought of everything. He truly was brilliant. And it was due to his brilliance that Will had remained alive for so long. After a few moments, Will felt a random pang of guilt strike his conscience.

"I'm sorry," Will said suddenly.

"Sorry for what?"

"Sorry for losing Harkness. I was stupid, and we lost him. He was meant for you; he was going to be your prize. Your ultimate goal of immortality."

"Forget about it, Will. I was just as stupid." Robert stopped and turned; he placed his hand, the one not clutching the glove, on his shoulder. "At least I have you back. Fit, and in a new body. That's the important part. So don't feel guilty." Will, as usual, warmed to Robert's sensible words. In the semi-darkness, the lenses of his glasses flashed like diamond facets as he leaned in towards him and-

"Hey! You! Don't you even think about slipping him the tongue, 'cause I will pound your goddam head into one of these tombstones, I swear!"

Will and Robert looked up, startled, to see Harkness coming towards them from the direction of Covenanter's Prison, with the Doctor not too far behind. Will's mouth dropped open, and his eyes grew wide. He felt Robert tugging his elbow, pulling him, his voice low and urgent as he commanded:

"Inside the church! Now!"

* * *

Jack watched as Albert and the false Ianto fled through the church's arched doorway. If he thought he was enraged before, he was truly livid now. The sight of that man-whoever he was-putting his hands on Ianto's body had sent him into a fury. _Don't you dare touch him! He's mine! _ It didn't matter that it wasn't really Ianto inside of it. That body belonged to the man he loved, and he was going to get it back! And he didn't want anyone else laying his filthy hands on it in the meantime!

_The man he loved?_

Jack was surprised by that thought, surprised as it flitted, unbidden, through the echoing caverns of his mind. The phrase had assembled itself, had alchemized from the neurons of his brain without any conscious forethought. It had simply appeared. But now that he was thinking it, he couldn't stop. Couldn't stop thinking about how intense his emotions were, how guilty he felt for kissing the Doctor in the lift, how miserable he felt for failing to keep Ianto safe. How enraged he felt at the thought of anyone else touching him. These feelings were all connected to one thing: there was only one single emotion powerful enough to produce this level of misery. Or elation. Only one...

_Love._

Jack raced up the steps of the church and threw open the double doors. He ignored the calls of "Jack, wait!" from the Doctor. He rushed, instead, headlong through the front atrium, straight down the main aisle between the wooden pews. He jogged to a stop in the center of the aisle, halting because of the sight that greeted him.

Ianto-or whoever it was inside of him-stood before the main altar, a blaze of candles from behind him casting a golden glow around his frame. His beautiful blue eyes were icy cold as he lifted and pointed Jack's own revolver squarely at his chest. Even with a gun in his hand, even with a murderous scowl on his face, Jack still thought he was the most gorgeous man he had ever seen.

"Stop following us. Stop following us, or something terrible will happen." The sound of Ianto's voice echoed through the church. _His_ Ianto's voice_. _Spewing out such hateful words.

"You know I can't," said Jack stonily, standing with his feet planted and head lifted. "You stole something from me, and I intend to get it back."

"Get it back how? What are you going to do to me, Captain Harkness? Are you going to drag me out of this church, manhandle me back to the hub-"

"-If I have to."

"Really? You could do that? You could get violent...with this body?" A slight smirk twisted the other Ianto's face as he slowly began to edge his way down from the altar.

"Why are you pointing that gun at me? Even if you shot and killed me, I wouldn't stay dead-"

"-oh, I'm not pointing it at _you_." There was only a second for Jack to react, only a second for him to turn and hurl himself at the figure standing behind him. "Doctor look out!" The shot went off, and Jack felt the bullet pierce his back, felt it burrow through his flesh. Pain burned like wildfire through his body, as he toppled forward onto the man he was trying to protect.

"Fool. You deserve that. For betraying the one who used to live in this body with _him_. You're a faithless bastard who doesn't know what love is..." The words faded out into nothingness as Jack felt himself sucked down, as he was dragged, unwillingly, into death's dark abyss. He was falling, falling. Down, then up. Through a wall of fire. Through a wall of pain. It was dark, and everything hurt, and he was being pulled, blindly, through the nothingness. Up, up, he was going up. Up, and then-

-consciousness returned as Jack was violently slammed back inside his own body. He was lying awkwardly, sprawled face down, on something that was moving. _Another body_. Then he remembered. He had fallen on the Doctor. He had thrown himself in front of him, had taken a bullet, and had collapsed on top of him.

"Get up you." Jack didn't raise his head, didn't move as Albert's rough voice cut through the aisle. "I said, get up." And suddenly, the Doctor was being pulled out from under him, away from him. Still, Jack did not move. He listened, he remained as still as the statue of the virgin on the altar, as Albert kept talking. "You missed, Will. That's alright, though. I'm more than glad to take care of this one."

"I didn't miss; Harkness threw himself in front of him." Ianto's voice, so close by. A shadow passed over Jack, there was the gentle whisper of footsteps by his ear. Jack tensed, and then, without warning, he reached out-

* * *

-and Will fell forward as Harkness reached out and grabbed his ankle. He landed face first in the aisle, and he felt the captain's hands clawing at him, dragging him back. Felt his fingers closing over the hand which held the gun. The two of them struggled, fought. Will was surprised when Harkness punched him the jaw; he had honestly believed that he didn't have it in him to do it, that he would be unable to hurt this shell. Apparently, he was wrong. Will fell back, landing hard in the aisle, losing his grip on the gun in the process. He felt a pair of arms close around his neck, felt the harsh press of cold metal against his temple.

"Drop the gun," he heard Harkness say next to his ear. He was horrified to find a gun aimed at his head. They were a mirror to Robert and the Doctor; Robert had a gun raised and pressed to the Doctor's temple. The air was tense, fraught with with explosive emotion. Jack spoke again: "I said, drop the gun!"

"_You _drop _your_ gun. Or I'll shoot him in the head."

"I'll shoot _him_ in the head," Will heard Harkness say above him. The captain tightened the chokehold he had around his neck for emphasis. Will couldn't believe his ears, couldn't believe what was happening.

"You wouldn't dare," hissed Robert.

"Wouldn't I?"

"No."

"Try me. This isn't really Ianto, you know. If I shoot this body, it wouldn't really be Ianto dying. It would be whoever's in here." A pause. "Just who are you people anyway?"

Will watched Robert's jaw clench in tense anger. "Dr. Robert Knox."

"From the front of that newspaper?" squeaked the Doctor under him. "From the Burke and Hare trial?"

A moment of silence. Then: "Yes."

The Doctor mumbled something about body snatchers and resurrectionists before Robert tightened his grip on his neck, choking off his words. Then Harkness laughed a mirthless laugh and said, "Well, this gives a whole new meaning to the word..."

"Just shut up and drop your weapon!"

"Drop yours!"

"Don't think I won't shoot him; I will do it!"

"Jack, this is crazy!"

"Robert!"

"Doctor, I hope you're not too attached to this new look of yours."

"Oh, it's quite alright Jack. I'm still not ginger, you know."

"What the hell are you two talking about?"

"If you shoot him, he won't stay dead either. He's not human, you know."

Silence.

"You're an anatomist, can't you hear two heartbeats?"

"Put. That. Gun. Down. Now."

"No."

"Robert, I think he means it."

"Will, be quiet."

"Jack, I think you-"

"Shut up!"

"Put it down-"

"No, you!"

"You!"

"No!"

"_Yes!"_

The sound of gunfire reverberated off the church's cavernous vaulted ceiling; it filled the narrow nave, slicing through the silence. The candles on the altar flickered and burned; the stained glass windows glowed, their panels filling the space with bold, brilliant color. The statue of the virgin looked on, her head bowed in silent solemnity. A dream-like stillness overtook the church, and as the final echoes of the fired shots faded, only a cold, dreadful silence remained.

And of the four figures in the center aisle, two of them were lying on the floor, dead.

_End Chapter 13._

_Review?  
_


	14. Chapter 14

_Expect several more POV shifts this chapter..._

Chapter 14: The Answer to the Question

_Edinburgh, Scotland, Present Day_

In the blink of an eye...

In a wink of starlight...

In a lightning's flash...

Both triggers were pulled, and the sound of gunfire filled the church. Filled it, then dissipated. Silence. Nothing. Then the dread, muted thud, the sound of bodies hitting the floor.

"NO!"

Will rushed forward to the fallen body of Robert Knox. He viciously shoved the Doctor aside into a pew, hissing, "Get away from him!" as he dropped to his knees beside the older man. His hands were shaking as he reached down to turn his lover's face to the side. Blood marred his salt-and-pepper hair; it stained the pale skin of Will's hands. His hands, which were so accustomed to handling corpses.

"_No, no, no, no, no!"_

Will pushed the Doctor back again when he tried to intervene. His emotions were in turmoil, his sense of logic obliterated. "Robert? Robert?" Will shook the dead man's shoulder, as if he were sleeping, as if this small, useless act could bring him back. "Robert?" Will's voice inched up another octave, inched precariously toward the sound of breaking.

"Robert?"

There was a loud groan from the aisle behind him. Will turned his head to see Harkness struggling up from his formerly prone position on the floor. As the other man crawled onto his knees, Will could see the star burst pattern of blood on the floor, evidence of his most recent death. Will's eyes turned black with hatred as he stared at the Torchwood captain. _Unfair! It wasn't fair! Why does he get to live? _Will felt the rage of angels descend upon him, and he lunged at Harkness, screaming, "BASTARD!"

* * *

Scotland was proving to be an inhospitable place.

That was Jack's first thought as he emerged from the swallowing darkness of death. Specifically, death number three. He'd been in Edinburgh for barely more than a single day, and he had already managed to get himself killed three times. _Three times. _That was a bit much, even for him. Maybe there really was something to England's hostility toward Scotland...

"BASTARD!"

Before Jack had a chance to fully recover, before he had time to become fully cognizant of his surroundings, there was a punch being thrown at his face. "Bastard!" Ianto had just hit him. _No, not Ianto, _he corrected himself, _the person who had hijacked Ianto's body. _Jack's head snapped back, and his vision danced as he stared up at the church's decorative ceiling.

"Die! Die! Why won't you die?"

The sound of those words being hurled at him in Ianto's deep, sonorous voice was terrible. Jack sat, stunned, as the Doctor tried to haul the other man back, as the two of them struggled on the floor of the nave. The other Ianto's eyes were ablaze with hatred as he spat curse after curse at Jack. And Jack just sat, unmoving in the aisle. And that's when he noticed the dark, unmoving shape on the floor.

Knox. Dead.

Dead, because Jack was a crack shot with a pistol. He never, ever missed. _Never. _ Jack slowly got to his feet; he began walking toward the fallen man, even as the other Ianto continued to scream bloody murder at him. One look at the maroon colored flower blooming on the floor beneath Knox's head told Jack all he needed to know. Knox had died almost instantly.

The church fell into silence once more.

Jack turned to stare down at the fake Ianto; his head was bowed, and he had gone almost preternaturally quiet. Jack watched the other man's shoulders shake with muted sobs. There was something in his attitude, something in the slumped, defeated set of his shoulders, which forced Jack to say his next words, to say something that was completely and wholly unexpected:

"I'm sorry."

Jack felt all his rage and anger disappear, felt it crumble in the face of this other man's tragedy. And it was tragic. Jack knew he shouldn't be feeling this way. He knew he shouldn't have such empathy for a person who was obviously both a criminal and a murderer. Yet he did. _He did. _ He felt for him, because...

_I was once a criminal and a murderer, too, _he thought. It did not matter that it had been for the military or the time agency or whoever. Torturing, killing, stealing, manipulating. All of this was part of Jack's past, so who was he to judge someone else for doing these things? Even though it was now his duty to make it all right, to dispense justice. Still...

"I'm sorry," he repeated.

"Shut up." The words were little more than a hoarse, misery-laced whisper.

"Jack," the Doctor interrupted quietly from his perch on one of the pews. "We should probably not dawdle any longer than necessary."

"_...the clock on that body is very soon going to run out..."_

Jack stared down at the unknown man on the floor, at the body he knew so well. "I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to take you back to the hub now." Then: "Where is the glove?"

A small pause. "It's hidden in the tabernacle."

Jack merely stared at the man crouched on the floor. "Don't try and run again."

"I don't want to run." Words tainted with a bitter resolve. Blue eyes flicked upward; their gaze emitted an aura of pain. It was Ianto's voice, but it had gone dull, lifeless.

"I don't want to live."

The Doctor spoke softly from his perch. "Once you're back in that other body, I'm afraid you won't-"

"-I don't want to live," the other Ianto repeated stubbornly. His eyes turned back to Jack, now imploring. "Not for a second longer. When you put me back in that body, I want you to turn off the machinery. All of it. Because if you really are sorry, then you'll do this one little thing for me. Yes?" Jack met the other man's gaze and held it. Silently, an agreement was reached. And Jack answered aloud:

"_Yes..."_

_

* * *

_

A fat, mother-of-pearl moon hung over the spindly branches of the trees, lighting the way as the three men trudged solemnly across the graveyard. Will barely noticed anything: not the headstones, the monuments, the castle, the stars; he no longer cared for any of it, because he had lost the one true thing he had cared about. Everything else in the world was inconsequential.

Captain Harkness stayed close, tracing his steps in tandem. The Doctor was somewhere in the shadows behind them, carrying the glove. Will marched towards the gates of Covenanter's Prison, marched toward the inevitability of his own death. Well, so be it. There was nothing left for him now, no feeling left to make the effort of living worthwhile.

Soon, he would be just another corpse on a slab.

Rocks and branches crunched beneath the captain's boots as he hovered beside him. Numbly, Will looked over at him, and out of the blue, he asked:

"Do you love him?"

"Huh? What?"

He could just barely make out Harkness's startled expression under the frosty blue cast of the moon. "What do you mean?" he asked hoarsely.

"Him. The one lying in the bed. Do you love him?" Will repeated. He watched Harkness's expression curiously. Watched as a myriad of emotions played out across it: confusion, fear, longing. A veritable prism of feeling.

"I don't...I don't know how to answer that question."

"Yes, you do. It's the easiest question in the world."

"What do you know about it-"

"-I know that I've been in love with the same person for almost two-hundred years. And it is..._was_...easy. Once you know the answer."

Harkness didn't speak. Nothing was said as the three men filed through the doorway of the Black Mausoleum. Once inside the lift, Will spoke again, in a low voice meant for Harkness's ears.

"He loves you, you know. I can feel it...the thought keeps bouncing around inside my head, _this_ head, like an echo, like something that won't go away. It happens like that sometimes, when you're inside another person's body. Pieces of them remain. Their emotions remain. Like when I saw you on the lift with that other one. I swear I felt a jealousy that wasn't mine. And then, when I called you a faithless bastard in the church, those words...those words weren't really mine, either."

Harkness's eyes went wide as he absorbed Will's words. He dropped his head to stare at the floor of the lift, then said, "So what do I do?"

"Do?" asked Will, as the lift came to a shuddering halt. "_Do_? Why...you know what to do, captain." And as the three of them exited the lift, as they took the corridor leading to the infirmary, Will said:

"Surely, if a monster such as myself can figure out what to do, then you can too..."

* * *

_This...this was a nightmare. A nightmare from which he could not wake, could not escape. He couldn't do anything, anything! His limbs wouldn't move, his limbs wouldn't even twitch. There was nothing, absolutely nothing. Just this trap he was caught in: this prison without bars that would not allow him to move or speak or even breathe on his own. This was a nightmare, and there was no end to it. It was eternal. He was trapped, trapped! He was lost inside here, and no one could hear him; no one could hear him scream. "Help me! Help me!" There was no one, only darkness. He was never going to talk to Jack again, was never going to touch Jack again. He was never going to wake up from this nightmare; he was never going to get out of this prison. He was trapped in here, waiting...waiting for some kind of rescue. Waiting to be released from this torment. He was in a hell of waiting, and it just went on and on and on. He was trapped in a living prison cell, waiting for the one man who could free him from it. Waiting on the fulfillment of a promise, the words of which were like a distant, shrinking echo in his mind:_

_ "...I will find a way to fix this. You can count on it. We'll put you back where you belong..."_

_ Jack! Jack! Where are you?_

_ And what if Jack didn't come back? What if his promise was a lie? What if he left again, like before? What if he went off with the Doctor? The Doctor, who could still move and speak and laugh and feel..._

_ No! No! That's crazy! Jack wouldn't! He couldn't leave him like this, couldn't leave him alone in the dark, with no one, without being able to move! He couldn't..._

_ Jack, where are you? Jack, speak to me! Jack! Jack!_

_ Out of the darkness, there came a sound. A far away sound, like a train rushing past, like the brazen howl of a distant winter wind. It grew louder, bolder. And in this shell, within the darkness of this prison that was made of flesh, he felt a hand reach out of nowhere and GRAB him. A cold hand, cold as death...as cold as the steel surface of a refrigerator. And suddenly he was being pulled, dragged. The hand that had come out of the darkness was dragging him through a tunnel of howling wind, through an electric field that crackled with the energy of an oncoming storm. He was flying through the blackness toward a distant light, toward a hole that was as small and insignificant as the eye of a needle. He knew that the hand meant to drag him through the pinhole, and he wouldn't fit. He wouldn't fit! He was flying towards it, and it wouldn't stop, he couldn't stop, and the tiny hole of light was there, waiting, waiting..._

"JACK!"

There was a rush of sound and light and color. His nerve endings were alive, crackling with feeling, crackling with a renewed ability to move that he had thought he would never have again. He was no longer lying supine on the bed; he was sitting in a chair, and he was clawing at some object in front of him, some shape that was burning amidst a halo of light. "Jack! Jack!" He could hear his own voice screaming, calling out. There was the heavy weight of fingers clutching his arms, their grasp burning a hole in his skin. His whole body tingled with electricity. And by his ear, he heard a soothing, familiar voice say:

"Ianto, stop shouting! It's alright; I've got you!"

"Jack?"

"I'm here. Stop screaming."

Eventually his vision returned. The light narrowed, the halo disappeared, and there was only Jack's face in front of his own. Ianto lifted a quivering hand, tentatively reached forward to touch the captain's face. _Real. He was real. This was not a dream. _The bright sheen of tears brought a sparkle to Ianto's eyes as they filled up with a flood tide of relief. "Jack," he whispered, in his own voice, the voice that he thought had been lost forever. "I was...I was trapped. I couldn't move. I couldn't do anything. I was trapped, and I was _so _scared-"

"Shhh, It's over now. Done. You're back where you belong." Ianto felt Jack's arms encircling him, pulling him close, enveloping him in a warm haze of animal comfort. Ianto collapsed into the embrace-willingly, gladly-squeezing out a waterfall of unshed tears that was allowed free reign over his face, cascading downward, leaving dark stains on Jack's coat. Ianto held onto to Jack like a life line.

"It was terrible in there," he choked. "Terrible. The worst kind of trap. And I was afraid you wouldn't be able to get me out. That you wouldn't come back."

"I'll always come back for you."

"I wasn't sure-"

"Be sure." There was the feather-light whisper of a kiss on his forehead. "I wouldn't leave you behind for the world, Jones. I'll always come back for you." Ianto felt a groundswell of warmth, of relief, flood through him. Maybe even happiness. He sighed in contentment, and he felt a tightness in his chest begin to unravel, felt it drift away, even though he hadn't realized that it had been there. This tight ball of worry, of fear. This feeling of being on unstable ground, of standing on a fault line. Now, he felt perfectly secure in the captain's arms.

"How...how did you do it? How did you manage to get me back?"

"The Doctor did it. He used the glove on you. Well, the_ other _glove." Ianto stiffened at the mention of the Doctor, almost more so than he did at the mention of the other glove. The memory of Albert and the glove coming towards him, of it ripping him right out of his body, was little more than a fuzzy, indistinct memory. A half-remembered nightmare. Jack continued to hold him, continued to whisper in his ear. "You know, I was complete crap with the other glove. No use even trying with this one. But here's the thing: the glove, it belongs to the Time Lords. Can you believe that? Time Lords!"

Jack couldn't see his face, couldn't see the change in his expression. Couldn't see the lingering doubt, the threatening darkness. "You're not leaving with him again are you?" Ianto blurted out before he could stop himself. Before he could successfully tame his one true-and before this moment-unspoken fear.

"What? No. Why would you-" Jack interrupted himself; he drew back to look at Ianto's face. "Ianto, you're not serious are you? You don't really think-"

"-you did it before. You left without a word."

He watched Jack's face soften in a way that was rare, that was unexpected. "I know. And I'm sorry about that. I should have apologized to you long ago. But I didn't want you to think that..."

"Think what?"

"I didn't want to give it a weight...I didn't want to add more meaning to our...relationship that wasn't really there."

Ianto's voice turned dissonant, darkened by the specter of disappointment. "Not t_here_?"

"Not then. No. But now-."

"-now?"

Jack smiled. "Now...now I think maybe we could explore things a little more in depth." He reached up to affectionately sweep back a strand of Ianto's hair.

"Is that some sort of wishy-washy 51st century American speak for saying you want to try and have a real relationship?"

"No," said Jack. Before Ianto could react, Jack swept in and claimed his lips with a kiss. It was gentle yet insistent, with just a playful hint of tongue that was there and gone again. It was a kiss which promised more-so much more. Jack drew back with a satisfied grin and said. "No, it's my wishy-washy 51st century American way of saying I'm in love with you, Jones."

Ianto said nothing, couldn't say...anything. He was trapped all over again, unable to move or speak or breathe...

And it was a most welcome trap.

"Ah...I see I've finally managed to leave you speechless," said Jack with a smirk. "You know, I think this might call for a celebration later. A little night on the town, just the two of us." Ianto remained silent. Then Jack called over his shoulder:

"What do you think, Doctor? Don't you think this deserves a celebration?" Nothing. No answer. Ianto watched Jack swivel his head, watched his eyes sweep over the medical bay. There was nothing, no one. The room was completely empty save for the now deceased body (his former prison) that was on the bed next to them. Otherwise, all was quiet. It was just the two of them.

The Doctor and the glove had both vanished...

_End Chapter 14._

_Up next: the final chapter!_


	15. Chapter 15

_Here it is! The last chapter! The Doctor is going to take care of that 'thing' he was working on, and Jack and Ianto are going to celebrate with some...ahem...fun smexyness!_

_To my faithful reviewers: UP2L8 (my fanfic wife from the Great White North), Nikkie Sheepie, special francine, junior051, and my darling editor (Maestro), Jorgmund Piper, Thank you! Your words did a lot for my motivation, and I sincerely appreciate it. You all have my everlasting love (not redeemable for cash or prizes)._

_So, on with the story. And I hope you all enjoy..._

Chapter 15: Everything in its Proper Place

_Edinburgh, Scotland, Present Day_

In the semi-darkness, between dank walls, a child's laugh echoed. In a place where no child should be, this sound repeated itself like a music track stuck on skip, over and over again, into eternity. In long forgotten rooms, crumbling beneath the creeping damp, a little girl sat playing, because that was all she could do, because that was all she had ever done. She sat and played with her toys, her offerings, in the shelter of the shadows, waiting for her mother to come. Waiting, waiting... Waiting for a mother who never came.

Over and over again, into eternity...

_ Up the close and down the stair,_

_ Up and down with Burke and Hare._

_ Burke's the butcher, Hare's the thief,_

_ Knox the man who buys the beef._

The slapping sound of a jump rope hitting the ground kept time with the girl's song, beating in time with a pulse that had been extinguished long ago. And yet the little girl still sang. She jumped and she sang, because it was all she could do. Because it was all she had ever done...

"Hello, sweetheart."

The little girl stopped jumping at the sound of the man's voice. She slipped away, retreating into the shadows away from the light. Away from the unfamiliar eyes that always looked so horrified whenever they saw her face. Looks which she did not understand, could not comprehend. So the little girl always hid herself, and now she watched from the shadows. Watched as the man with the funny tie and hat came into her room.

Oh, she remembered the man with the funny tie! She remembered playing ball with him. The man with the tie was the only person to have played with her in almost two hundred years.

"Have you brought me a doll, mister?" she asked. Asked, because that was what she always did. Because it was what she had always done...

"Doll? A doll? Oh wait, yes!" The little girl watched as the man pulled a stuffed animal from inside his jacket. A funny looking monkey with red eyes. The man held out the offering, and the little girl inched forward and snatched the toy from his grasp. She stood examining the animal beneath the circle of amber light, a half smile adorning her face. Half, because one side of her face was burned beyond recognition. The man with the tie didn't flinch, didn't flee from her, and the little girl was surprised by this. Because once they saw her face, they always fled. They always ran away.

Always.

"What's your name, sweetheart?"

"Annie."

"And is this where you live, Annie? Down in these vaults?"

"I live here with my ma."

"Oh, I see."

"What's your name, mister?"

"They call me the Doctor."

"Would you stay and play a game with me, Mr. Doctor? Until my ma comes home?"

"Of course I will, sweetheart. In fact, I have the perfect game in mind: Finders Keepers." The man held up a funny-looking torch that glowed green in the dimness. "See this crystal? The first one to find another one, a bigger one, wins the game."

"It's pretty," said Annie, gazing at the stone.

"Ah-ah! No touching; this one's mine. But I'm pretty sure we can find one for you, if we look hard enough. Yes?"

"Yes."

Annie watched as the Doctor knelt down by her pile of dolls, watched him pull one out, a brunette with a velvety garnet dress. Then she watched him do something completely unexpected: he casually yanked the head off the doll and turned it upside down and shook it. When nothing came out, he chose another doll and did the same thing; he tore the head off and shook it. Soon, half the pile had been decapitated. Annie laughed and laughed as the silly man 'played' with her dolls, and she dropped to her knees beside him, peering inside the headless dolls, copying his actions. No green crystal was to be found. Still, the Doctor kept going: snatch, yank, shake, drop. Snatch, yank, shake, drop. Annie squealed with delight and hugged the monkey and said, "You play funny games, Mr. Doctor."

"I certainly do, Annie. I certainly do."

Two-thirds of the pile was now headless. The Doctor continued to dig through the pile, his long fingers searching, grasping; from the center, he pulled out a very old looking doll with a cracked porcelain face and a dirty dress of spun wool. A very old doll, decades old. With a _twist! _and a_ pop!_ he had the head off, and suddenly the room was flooded with a unearthly green light. The Doctor smiled a green tinted smile and said, "There you are, you naughty little thing, you." He turned the doll upside down, and out fell a green crystal, bigger than the one in his torch, just like he had described. "Finders keepers! Oh, you lovely little piece of TARDIS fuel..."

"You talk weird."

"Yes I do, Annie. All the time, in fact."

Annie stared with her good eye at the glowing gem. "Does this mean we're done playing now?"

"Yes, we're done playing now. Because once I take the 'fuel' away, this time loop will end."

"Will my ma come home then?"

The Doctor smiled; it was strange, because he also looked sad at the same time. "Yes, you'll finally get to see your ma now, dear." The Doctor stood up and dropped the crystal inside his jacket. He turned and began walking out of the room. Before he got out the door, Annie bounded forward and threw her arms around his waist and said, "Thanks for playing with me, Mr. Doctor." She gazed up at him with her mangled, heartbreaking smile.

"You're very welcome, Annie." The Doctor hugged her back. And then, after carefully detaching himself, he turned and left the vaults.

And inside the vaults, the image of the little girl faded. Faded, with a happy smile on her face...

* * *

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" Jack cursed through gritted teeth. A sheen of frustrated sweat broke out on his forehead. "I will not be defeated by you, godammit! I will not! I'm Captain Jack Harkness, for Christ's sake. I can do this..."

"What are you doing?" asked Ianto, walking into the room. He found Jack standing before a full length mirror. He was out of his old clothes and was dressed from head to toe in a full tuxedo. The whole thing was perfect, except for-

"-I can't get this freakin' bow-tie to look right!" Jack whined miserably. Ianto shook his head and came forward, pushing Jack's hands aside saying, "Here, let me do it." Jack had an eyebrow arched, and Ianto had a hard time suppressing a tiny smile.

"Don't think I didn't notice that cheeky smile of yours, Jones," said Jack.

"Sorry, sir. But you're positively dreadful when it comes to tying ties."

"I know I'm 'dreadful.' Why do you think I never wear the things?" Jack looked down at Ianto's own dress suit, and he reached out to finger the material of his waistcoat. "Gold brocade? Very nice, Mr. Jones. Very nice, indeed."

"Thank you, sir. And the actual color would be 'champagne.'"

"_Champagne_? Hey, are you sure you weren't gay before I met you?"

"Now who's being cheeky?"

"Touche."

Ianto finished with the tie and stood back to admire his handiwork. "There. Now you look perfectly presentable for dinner at the Witchery."

"Presentable? That's all? I need to look more than just 'presentable.' After all, I'm going to be escorting the most handsome man in the place..."

"Alright, you look like James Bond. You know, if James Bond was into time-travelling and galaxy hopping. And into sleeping with men."

"Mr. Bond doesn't know what he's missing." The Jack Harkness smirk emerged. He reached out and snagged Ianto's hand, pulling him against him. He whirled him around once, twice, in an impromptu waltz. Finally, Ianto said, "If we don't get going, we're going to be late, sir."

"What did I tell you about dropping this 'sir' shit?" said Jack for the umpteenth time. He casually hooked a leg around the back of Ianto's knees, tripping him up and landing him on the plush cushions of a small blue settee. There was a determined, devilish gleam in his eyes as he pounced on top of him, holding his face just a fraction of an inch above Ianto's own. Ianto swallowed hard and said dryly, "I take it we won't be making this engagement, either."

"Uhm, I don't think so," and Jack nudged forward, pressing his already prominent arousal into Ianto's thigh.

"But it's our last night here. Our flight home is tomorrow morning-"

"-so cancel it. Let's stay here another night. Hell, let's stay _two_ nights. Make it a real holiday."

Ianto smiled at the suggestion, mainly because that had been his intent for this trip the whole time. "What shall we tell the team then?"

"I don't care what you tell the team. You can tell them Edinburgh castle is infested with weevils. That Sontarans have invaded Holyrood palace..." Jack allowed the words to trail off as he bent forward to brush his lips teasingly over Ianto's own. "All I care about is...dessert." Jack pushed forward then, breaching the infinitesimal space between them, sealing Ianto's lips with his own. The kiss was long and drawn out, ending with a breathless, lust-laced comment of, "Mmm, bet they don't have desserts like that at the Witchery."

"I've always been overly fond of dessert," Ianto commented, as he reached up to drag Jack's face back down to his own, going back in for an even hungrier, hotter kiss. They stayed wrapped together on the settee, making out like a pair of horny teenagers, until Jack finally dropped to his knees on the carpet beside the couch, tearing at the clasp of Ianto's trousers in lust-fueled haste.

"Jack," Ianto gasped hoarsely, "I can't-"

"-shhh," said Jack, before engulfing his erection completely with his mouth. His left hand worked at the base as his right snaked up into his shirt to pinch roughly at his nipple. Meanwhile, Jack's lips and tongue pulled at him _hard_. Ianto lay prone against the blue cushions, eyes rolled back, mouth open, delirious with sensation. So many, many good sensations. "Jack, I'm going to-"

"-not yet," Jack commanded, and he leaned back up for another kiss. Ianto groaned his disappointment into his mouth, his whole body keening at the loss of Jack's mouth on his cock. Jack gazed at him through half-lidded eyes and said in a whisper, "Don't come until I'm inside you. That's an order."

His response was an almost inaudible whisper: "Yes, sir."

Jack pulled at his clothes, tearing buttons and casting them rudely aside in his rush to get him naked. When Ianto tried to undo Jack's buttons, Jack shoved his hands away and said, "Leave it. I'm going to fuck you like this." Ianto's eyes blazed with overpowering lust as Jack laid down on top of him in his full suit; the material was like silk against his naked flesh. _Alien, unexpected, and completely arousing._ Jack had never looked so good, had never tasted so good.

And Ianto had never wanted anyone so much...

He was more than ready when Jack sucked on his first two fingers and pushed them inside of him. He arched into the invasion, welcoming, pushing. "Somebody's eager," Jack said by his ear. He could hear the smirk in his voice, the taunt, and Ianto blushed but said anyway: "Please Jack-"

"What was that?"

"Please."

"Hmmm?"

"Put it in, goddam i-"

Ianto groaned as Jack greased up and pushed all the way into him, neatly cutting off his sentence. He maneuvered Ianto's hips over the edge of the couch, so he could get a better angle, a better position from which to push. Ianto watched as Jack watched himself in the full length mirror across the way: his tuxedoed body against his pale,naked one. And Jack, seemingly spurred on by the image, huffed, "That...(_thrust)..._looks...(_thrust)..._awesome!"

"Egomaniac," Ianto gasped out beneath him.

"Yey, but you love me anyway, right?"

"I love you completely..._oh, god!" _Ianto arched suddenly and dug his heels into Jack's back as Jack's thrusts hit that familiar place inside of him, the one that had the power to drive him over the edge. "Uhn, Jack, I'm sorry, but I'm going to-"

"-it's alright, Yan. I want you to come." Jack breathed heavily against his lips, melding his hips with his own.

"No..._uhn_...I'm going to ruin.._.ah_...your tux," Ianto gritted out in halted words as orgasm hit him, as his body convulsed wildly against Jack's. His cock twitched between them, semen spurting, staining the expensive cloth. Jack hastened his strokes, hurrying to catch up, groaning and cursing loudly as he collapsed on top of Ianto, as his own orgasm upset his ability to stay upright. Ianto could feel Jack's heart racing _(the heart that would never, ever stop racing),_ beating frantically against his own. With effort, he pushed the negative thoughts of Jack's immortality aside, buried them, and he allowed himself instead to drift on a tide of post-orgasmic bliss. To drift on an ocean where his love was assured, where love would keep him afloat. Even in the darkest of times. Even if it wouldn't-couldn't-last through Jack's own forever...

Ianto felt soft lips caressing his own. Felt the silky touch of cotton, of warm, wispy breath. The feel of Jack against him. The feel of the two of them, locked together. The feeling of...

_Perfection._

"That was the best money I've spent on a suit, ever," commented Jack wryly.

"You mean two suits," said Ianto, eyeing the torn remnants of his own on the floor.

Smiling, Jack said, "Wanna reserve another table for tomorrow night?"

"At this point, the maitre d' is likely to tell me to go to hell."

"Who cares? As long as I get 'dessert,' I'm good."

"Oh, you're more than good," said Ianto insinuatingly.

Jack gazed down at him. "I love you, Yan."

No hesitation: "I love you too, Jack."

"Even with all the death and the body switching and the gun battles, this was the best holiday ever."

"Definitely, sir. But...can we perhaps have a holiday without all that?"

"In Torchwood? I don't think so."

"Hmm. I don't think so either, sir."

"But this made it all worth it, right?"

"Oh yes," Ianto said, smiling languidly, smiling happily. Then:

"It was definitely _all _worth it."

_End/Fin._

_Final review?_


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